


Bound by Symmetry

by barelypink



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 80s movie marathon, Adult high fives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, First Kiss, Freckles, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Game Night, High School, Lice outbreak, M/M, Math-related foreplay, Mutual Pining, Patrick in a baseball uniform, Peanut and butter jelly sandwiches, Pretentious chalk, Sexual Tension, Sexy shapes, Stevie Budd is a good friend but also a troll, Sweet Angst, Teacher AU, Trapezoids triangles parallelograms oh my, prom scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelypink/pseuds/barelypink
Summary: For the prompt by Stargatewars - Teacher AU: Patrick is a high school business or maths teacher. David is a high school art/design teacher.David takes a long-term substitute teaching job at Schitt’s Creek High School when their art teacher has an accident. He meets Patrick Brewer, unassuming high school math teacher, and catches some feelings. Basically, what if Patrick and David had a high school romance as adults. A love letter to David, Patrick, teachers, and the town of Schitt’s Creek.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 369
Kudos: 707
Collections: Schitt's Creek Open Fic Night 2.0





	1. Square Root

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stargatewars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargatewars/gifts).

> Set during the course of season three, but timelines and continuity are all over the place. If it’s good enough for Daniel J. Levy, it’s good enough for me. Patrick has his own apartment because he always should have had one. Also no Sebastien Raine because who really wants that guy to show up again? 
> 
> Title taken from "Red Right Ankle" by The Decemberists.
> 
> Thanks to both [Pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smarty_Pants/pseuds/Pants) and [likerealpeopledo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo) for being wonderfully insightful, encouraging, and exacting betas. Without them this fic would not be half of what it is. Also probably not as many words, so you can blame them for that too.

David never saw it coming at all. 

But he never should have let himself get glued into the cracked vinyl seat of his family’s regular booth at the cafe without having an exit strategy firmly in place so really, there's no one to blame but himself. And Jocelyn never seems as bad as Roland, although now that David thinks about it, Jocelyn has been the source of putting the Roses in a lot of uncomfortable situations. Did he learn nothing from that whole Connor debacle?

Yet when Jocelyn approaches his booth as he finishes his mystery meatloaf on a wintry Tuesday afternoon, David is relaxed and even a little disposed to being gracious. It was a surprisingly decent meatloaf.

"David Rose. Just the man I was hoping to run into." Jocelyn slides into the booth across from him, brushing flakes of snow from her shoulders and hair. "You graduated from college, right?"

"Excuse me?" 

"Maybe I shouldn't presume. I mean, Alexis apparently didn’t graduate from high school and everyone just assumed she had. And you know what they say about people who assume, right?" Jocelyn laughs and shakes her head back and forth like a deranged bobblehead. "She's doing great, by the way, Alexis. Brings a lot of unique perspectives to our discussions. Hardly ever derails the conversation anymore."

"Super," says David, trying to catch Twyla's attention but she’s wholly focused on wiping down the menus. As if that could possibly lift the permanent film of sticky residue from those monstrosities. 

"But did you?" Jocelyn presses again, a faint hint of desperation now creeping into her voice.

"Did I what?" David has already forgotten how this whole thing started. 

"Graduate from college? Do you have a degree from a certifiably accredited college? You'd be surprised how difficult that is to come by around here." Jocelyn’s laugh is shrill and uncomfortable. It makes David’s skin prickle. 

"You'd be surprised how not shocking that is," David responds quickly. He needs to run—now—but he’s trapped by Jocelyn’s frozen smile and Twyla’s inability to look up from the salt shakers she’s now refilling as if she’s a chemist working with radioactive materials. 

Jocelyn raises another eyebrow as she waits. David is amazed they're still somehow on her face. But David Rose cannot be swayed by a persuasively cocked eyebrow. He can withstand even Johnny’s most penetrating glare and Jocelyn is no match for those hirsute brows. 

"Yes, Jocelyn," David finally answers, hoping it will bring this conversation to a swift end. "I did, in fact, go to college."

"And graduate?" 

David waves his hand dismissively. "So they tell me."

"Do you have proof?" Jocelyn is leaning forward eagerly now as if this is the most spectacular news she’s received all year. Poor thing. 

"Well, I do have some unfortunate photos from spring break I could show you..."

"No, like a transcript. Can you get a transcript from your school?" 

David furrows his brow. "I mean, sure. I could probably do that."

Jocelyn starts nodding her head maniacally again. And David knows now that he should have fled as soon as she sat down. Surely Twyla would have just added his meatloaf to his family’s outrageously ballooning tab when she finally looked up from the ketchup bottles to realize David was gone. Instead, David is going to die in this booth and the funeral will be held right here at the cafe before the dinner rush. 

"OK, here's the thing, David," Jocelyn says. "The high school is desperate. Mr. Stewart, the art teacher, had a terrible glass blowing accident this weekend and we need a substitute art teacher. You know something about art, right? You did run those galleries in New York before. We've looked everywhere but a long-term sub does need to have a college degree and there's no one within a 100 kilometer radius who wants the job. So will you do it?"

David merely blinks at Jocelyn as if she’s suddenly started speaking Japanese or Klingon. "That idea should scare you very much. Can you imagine this"—David swipes two hands down his entire body with a flourish—"in high school? Again?"

"David, please," Jocelyn is downright pleading and David hates that he knows her well enough now to know that this is a hard ask for her. Even worse, he doesn’t have any good excuse not to do it except that he doesn’t want to do it. (Which is still a good enough reason in David’s book.) But the Blouse Barn just shut down and even though it’s gifted him with a modest bit of savings, he knows he needs to figure out what to do next. And a paycheck is a paycheck. 

David rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. "I guess...I could help for a bit." He’s always been a pushover. 

Jocelyn breathes out audibly, her shoulders sagging with relief. "Can you come by the high school office tomorrow? Bring your transcript. It doesn’t have to be an official one."

David nods and takes another sip of his orange juice. He needs to keep his blood sugar up now that the reality of what he’s agreed to is catching up to him. Jocelyn scoots herself inelegantly out of the booth and turns back to David.

"Just out of curiosity's sake, what _ did _ you major in?"

"Aesthetics," David replies matter-of-factly. 

"Of course you did, sweetie," Jocelyn says with a resigned sigh. "Well, drop by the administrative offices anytime tomorrow with your transcript and ID. We’ll get you all set up."

David scrunches his face in distaste. "Can’t wait."

***

When David tells Stevie about Jocelyn’s proposition, she becomes positively unhinged, leaking ridiculous tears out the sides of her eyes as she waves her hand in front of her face. David examines the disastrous state of his cuticles as he waits for Stevie to return to her senses. He expected her to mock him, not lose her everloving mind.

"Are you quite done?"

"Yes." She stifles another laugh. "No, I’m good now. Just had to get that out of my system."

"Your support is very affirming, so thank you very much for that." David is already full of regrets and Stevie’s reaction isn’t helping.

"You do know this means you’ll have to wake up before 8:00 am, right?" Stevie asks pointedly, as if David has never heard of such an hour of the day. 

David tilts his head with a disdainful look. "I’m sure my hours can be negotiated."

Stevie furrows her brow in the way she does whenever she catches one of the Roses not understanding how the real world works. "Uh, yeah. I don’t think that’s gonna happen."

"Anyway, it’s not for long. Substitutes only come in for like a day or two, right? How bad can it be?" David asks flippantly. 

Stevie’s eyes widen with offensive delight. "Yeah, they’re gonna eat you alive."

***

In the end, Stevie does help David print off copies of his college transcript on perforated paper from her rickety printer before sending him off with very clear directions to the high school. _ "Follow the scent of sweat and weed. If you pass the rusted out truck with a cracked windshield where I lost my virginity, you’ve gone too far." _ By the time he makes it to Schitt’s Creek High School, it’s only 20 minutes before the final bell of the day and David is frazzled beyond belief.

Mr. Wells, the principal, a man of slight build, fidgety disposition, and balding head seems incomprehensibly excited about David’s arrival. He barely glances at his transcript before he shoves paperwork in David’s direction and asks him to fill it out so they can process him for payroll. 

When the paperwork is finished, Mr. Wells drags David down the now deserted hallways with their chipped paint and scuffed linoleum floors and rows of dented metal lockers to show him the art classroom. It’s near Valentine's Day and the hallways have been covered with an explosion of red and pink and purple hearts which do nothing to soothe David’s ragged nerves. 

Mr. Wells pushes open the door to the art room and points out the supply closet and pile of lesson plans Mr. Stewart apparently left behind. 

"We really can’t thank you enough, David," the principal says, handing over the classroom key. "It’s hard to find someone who can sub for five months."

"Wait, back up," David screeches. His life is practically flashing before his eyes. "Five months? I thought I was just going to be here for a few days. No one mentioned five months!"

"Well, yeah, Mr. Stewart's burns were quite extensive. The skin grafts alone are going to take three months to heal. I mean, he did blow up the entire kiln. He’s lucky to be alive, actually." Mr. Wells wrings his hands and readjusts his glasses, leaving sweaty-fingered smudges behind. "Well, we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning. School starts at 8:00 am, but most of the teachers get here by 7:00." He laughs nervously and then disappears out the door before David can protest. 

David has made a very serious mistake.

***

David survives his first day of teaching. That’s about the best he can say for the experience. He comes home in one piece and collapses on his bed without even taking off his shoes. He’s more exhausted than he can ever remember being in his life. 

His feet scream in protest when he finally peels off his shoes and his legs feel rubbery from the effort of holding up his whole body all day. He tells himself he’ll get up soon and carry on with his evening, but his eyeballs ache and his tongue is heavy in his mouth from the hours of talking and teaching—if you can call what he did today teaching. He passes out on top of his covers at 7:00 pm, having only managed to shed his Rick Owens sweater and unbutton the top button of his tight black pants.

Alexis wakes him up when she breezes into the motel room at 10 o’clock with an "ew, David" and a "woof." David stumbles into the bathroom and manages to at least wash his face and fumble into some pajamas before he crawls back into bed—under the covers this time—and tumbles into sleep once again.

***

A week into the worst mistake of David’s life—including the time he let Christina Aguilera convince him to pluck his eyebrows in the early aughts—David is squaring off with his new nemesis: the vending machine. It’s just around the corner from the art room, tucked into a dark little alcove, and David has taken to feeding his ravenous sweet tooth with its high fructose corn syrup offerings at least once a day. He only has ten minutes until the next period starts and he needs an energy boost right away if he’s going to survive the freshman art class. Dealing with freshmen is like wrangling rambunctious puppies who are still growing into their over-sized paws. Except they're puppies who have also discovered sex and curse words.

The metal spring is moving slowly, slowly back and then stops, pinning his Snickers bar in its clutches. David hits the side of the machine, but the candy bar doesn’t budge. He bangs on the glass with two flat palms and still the vending machine grips tightly to its prize. David groans in frustration. He tries to shimmy the machine with his hip but if anything, it just lodges the Snickers bar more firmly into the metal clamp.

"Dirty fucking bastard!" David screams in frustration, but quietly under his breath. This is still a place of higher learning and education, after all. 

"Well, now," says an amused voice behind him. "It doesn’t seem quite fair to call the vending machine such names."

David turns around to see the most basic human being he’s ever seen_. Of course he’s a high school teacher_, David thinks in annoyance as he takes in the man’s muddled brown eyes and cheap hair cut and basic man uniform, _ he had no other choice looking like that_.

"We haven’t met yet. I’m Patrick Brewer," the man says, extending his hand.

"David Rose." David feels a tiny twinge of embarrassment as he takes Patrick’s outstretched hand. He just wants chocolate and now he has to exchange pleasantries with a fellow teacher who David is now realizing is possessed of one very warm and exquisitely large hand. 

"David Rose, I know. The new art teacher," Patrick replies with a breezy smile, beautiful hands returning to his hips. 

"Substitute art teacher," David clarifies, as if the distinction is vitally important.

"Well, I teach math in the room just across from yours," Patrick says, all warmth and smiles, and oh no, David does not like this one bit. Patrick is a nice person. David doesn’t play well with nice people...even nice people with hands that Michelangelo could have sculpted. 

"Here. Let me help you." Patrick shoulders past David and inserts another dollar bill into the machine and selects B13 for the Snickers. David’s trapped candy bar slips out, followed quickly by a second one. Patrick bends down to pull the chocolate out of the trap below and David can see now that the rolled-up sleeves of this math teacher’s dark blue button-down shirt shows off his very nice forearms as well. 

Patrick straightens up and offers the first Snickers bar to David. "Well, fifth period starts soon so I think you’re gonna need this."

"Thank you," David says softly. "That’s very gallant of you."

They move into the hallway where the lighting is better and David sees now that Patrick’s eyes aren’t a nondescript brown, but the hue of amber-colored syrup. His hair is a million colors all at once, dark like molasses but with hints of crystallized ginger, glinting red and yellow in the fluorescent lighting. He smile is easy and wide, and there are careworn grooves carved into his cheeks when he laughs at David eating his Snickers in three quick bites. There’s a tiny scar, David notices, in the corner of his left eye and David wants to touch it, smooth it out, kiss it better.

"Come find me anytime you have another Snickers-related emergency," Patrick says when they reach their parallel doors, a luminous smile spreading across his face, transforming his whole presence from ordinary to extraordinary. "I’m always here if you need me."

David watches until Patrick Brewer, high school math teacher, is back in the safety of his classroom before he drags a full inhale into his body and retreats to his own classroom where he sinks onto a hard metal stool with a groan.

David Rose, substitute art teacher, is well and truly fucked. 

*** 

Suddenly, Patrick Brewer is everywhere. He’s in the hallways teasing David about his ongoing vendetta against the vending machine. He’s in the staff room making copies of math tests just when David needs more paper. He’s in the teacher’s lounge heating up his adorable Tupperware containers of homemade food during their lunch breaks. He’s in his door frame leaning against it with infuriating confidence, watching David with bright, playful eyes. 

"Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we, Mr. Rose?" that snark-faced menace of a math teacher calls to David when he skids to a stop in front of the art room one Monday morning, out of breath. At least he did not have to resort to running this time, but it was a near thing. 

David simmers with irritation as he turns to level Patrick with a steely gaze. "Do you not have actual students you could be tormenting instead of me?" 

"Oh, I’m an equal opportunity torturer," Patrick returns with a smirk, arms now crossed, cuffed sleeves straining against the finely turned muscles of his arms. Why of all the classrooms in this godforsaken school did David’s have to be across from his? 

A lanky student with the most alarmingly bad posture passes down the hall and Patrick claps him on the shoulder. "Good morning, Dylan. So glad you could make it to school on time today." But he says it while looking David straight in the eye. Like an angel-faced menace. 

Dylan walks into David’s classroom—has this kid always been in his class?—and Patrick calls "hope you finished your statistics homework" after the kid’s retreating back. David turns to follow Dylan into his classroom as the final bell starts to ring.

"Wait. David." Patrick’s voice is suddenly sweeter, less snarky. David turns around, a little kick in his veins. 

Patrick points to the corner of his own mouth. "You have a little toothpaste right there." And he smiles, but it’s a nice smile. A friendly one. 

David rubs his lips and comes away with the chalky remnants of his off-brand toothpaste. He really wishes he could find an all-natural one around here like he used to buy in New York. 

"Thanks, Patrick." 

Patrick nods his head, just once, like he’s calling a truce in a gentleman's duel. "Have a good day, David." 

The next time the vending machine eats David’s money two weeks later, he storms into Patrick’s classroom, ready to begin an epic-level rant on how machines are ruining our lives. But before David can reach the concluding arguments about how we’ve given the machines too much power and we need to take it back, Patrick steers him over to his desk and says, "I thought it might come to this."

Patrick pulls open the middle drawer to reveal a treasure trove of snacks. There’s individual packs of trail mix, but the kind with just nuts and dried fruit and no M&Ms—honestly, what’s the point of that?—and hearty granola bars and fruit leather, but also a few Snickers, Twix, Kit Kats, and oh, a Coffee Crisp. The vending machine doesn’t even sell those. David snatches it up, peels off the wrapper, and takes a bite before he’s even said anything.

"Thank you, Patrick," he mumbles around a full mouth of wafer and chocolate. God, it tastes so good.

Patrick laughs with his shoulders and tries to stifle a full-blown grin. David likes his smile so much. "Any time, David. My snack drawer is your snack drawer."

It’s only once David is back in his classroom, the Coffee Crisp just an empty wrapper in his trash bin, that it hits David that he’s never actually seen Patrick eat anything unhealthy, not even the Snickers bar he purchased the first day they met. Which means that Patrick must have bought all those candy bars for David in anticipation of just such a moment, of just such an emergency, his own chocolate-flavored savior in mid-range denim. 

So maybe not a menace after all. 

***

At the end of the day, Alexis catches David and Patrick mid-conversation, as the hallways swirl with departing students. She sidles up to David and glances between both men with a knowing smile on her lips before David realizes she’s there.

"Ugh, Alexis. What are you doing here?" David huffs. 

Alexis double blinks innocently. "Just coming to see if you’re ready to leave since we drove in together today."

Patrick’s brow furrows in confusion while David tries to put on a good face. "Patrick, this is my sister Alexis. Alexis apparently never graduated from her Swiss boarding school ten years ago and is earning the last few credits she needs to get her diploma."

"Alexis, hi," Patrick says, extending his hand. "That’s very commendable of you."

Alexis holds out her hand like a visiting dignitary, and Patrick awkwardly tries to shake her limp fingers. "Sorry. My hands are just, like, so soft."

"Uhh, that’s fine," but he pulls his hand out of her grasp as quickly as he can. "Well, I’ve got to get back to grading those math tests. See how much my students hate me right now. It was nice to meet you, Alexis."

David waves good-bye with a slight smile and turns back into his classroom to collect his bag. Alexis stomps in, slams the door shut, and sinks into the chair next to David's desk.

"Oh, my God, David. You think that button-faced math teacher is cute!" She dances her fingers across David’s desk in excitement.

"No. No, I don't," David immediately deflects. "He just gives me candy sometimes. I like anyone who gives me chocolate."

"Mm. I don't think it's just about a Coffee Crisp bar though, is it?" Alexis says pointedly.

"Whatever. Alexis," David says with an exaggerated eyeroll and then pauses. "Wait. How did you know it was a Coffee Crisp? Did you hear something about that?"

"No. I can just see the wrapper in your trash can. You should be better at hiding your shame eating by now, David. But I can get the scoop on him." Alexis claps her hands together excitedly.

"No, no! I don't want you flirting with a teacher, Alexis. I mean, you're still technically a student so that has to be...not allowed, right?" David probably should have read the Code of Conduct handbook he was given when he was first hired. That probably has important information that would be useful in blocking annoying younger sisters from interfering in a not-romance with a fellow teacher, a likely very straight fellow teacher.

"Ugh. Please, David," Alexis says. "Flirting is, like, only the third most effective way to get information."

And with that, she flounces off with a flip of her bouncy hair and one broken down wrist. When David finally makes it out to the parking lot, the Lincoln is gone and David has to catch a ride home with Jocelyn. They spend the whole car ride home swapping remedies for bunions and sore teacher feet.

***

A week later, Alexis breezes back into David’s classroom, fairly vibrating with whatever salacious gossip she’s managed to extract from her sources. David tries to pretend he doesn’t care. 

"You always get the best gossip from the help," Alexis says with that careless, sly smile of hers. "They hear all the dirt."

"OK, well, I don't think they call them ‘the help’ around here," David says. Though Alexis is not wrong. The maids always knew whatever drama was going on in Moira’s life and knew to warn David when she was in one of her moods. He sometimes misses the buffer they provided.

"Fine. The staff. Whatever," Alexis amends. "So Ethel, the lunch lady, said that Mr. Brewer is a new teacher here this year and he came from a much better high school that actually teaches calculus, so everyone was very excited to have him teach here."

"All things I already knew, Alexis," David huffs. "And he doesn't teach calculus. He teaches geometry and statistics. And trigonometry, I think. That's a math thing, right?" 

"Do I look like I know?" Alexis waves her hands in consternation. "Can you just let me finish? God, David. It's like you don't appreciate the effort I went to to get you this information."

David merely stares at Alexis with one notched eyebrow. He's pretty sure he told her not to do this and now she's succeeded in making him feel bad about it. Great. 

"He moved here from another small town, but, like, obviously bigger than Schitt’s Creek. Elm Valley or Elm Pines or something like that. Why is everything within 200 kilometers called Elm? It's very confusing. Anyway, Ethel said there was some talk that he'd just ended a very long relationship and that's why he was willing to move here."

"Did she happen to know the...um...name of this ex person?" David refuses to meet Alexis’ eyes when he asks. 

"I’ve seen you talking to that cute little button several times! He hasn’t ever mentioned it?"

"No," David says. "We don’t talk about that kind of stuff, generally speaking. But now that I think about it, he talks very little about himself." 

Now David feels bad about not being a less self-absorbed person and asking Patrick more about himself. Does he even know where he went to college? Or where he’s from? Has Patrick ever mentioned it? Was he even listening? Maybe, but maybe David was too fixated on Patrick’s ridiculous arms to pay attention.

Alexis snaps him back to the present conversation. "I also talked to Gladys in custodial, the one with the unfortunate bang situation—" Alexis pauses as if David should know who she’s referring to by that description but when she gets no acknowledgement from David, she barrels on. "—and she said that she often overheard him having some heated conversations on his phone when she was emptying the trash in his classroom after school. So I guess it didn't end well? She's pretty sure she heard him say a woman's name though."

"Oh. But like an obvious woman's name or was it an ambiguous name like Taylor or Alex or...Bruce?" 

"I don't know David. In any case, it seems to me that he might be looking for a fresh start or a…"

"Or a rebound?" David asks hopefully. 

"No, I was going to say a friend. You could just be his friend." Alexis switches to her serious voice. "It sounds like he could use one if he broke up with his girlfriend and moved to this sad little town to work as a high school math teacher. Clearly, he is not making smart life decisions right now."

David scoffs, a little bit stung, even though he’s the valedictorian of bad life choices. What if one of Patrick’s ludicrous life decisions is developing feelings for the substitute art teacher across the hall? 

"And how's ‘just being a friend’ working out for you and Ted, Alexis?" It’s a low blow and David knows it. 

"Mm, so good, David." But Alexis' face contorts with a sunny grimace. 

She stands and smooths out her floral Ulla Johnson dress and looks at David with a determined face, and there’s something about the tilt of her head that makes David pay attention.

"You might be surprised how much you like being his friend. You could use another one besides Stevie at least."

She turns to go, but then pivots once she reaches the door. "But Josh did say he may have seen someone who looked like Mr. Brewer at The Dude Cave around Christmas-time."

"And what’s The Dude Cave?" David asks, although he’s already regretting it, already wishing he could stuff the words back into his mouth.

"Just the all-male strip club outside of town. Ted’s cousin Josh works there." Alexis dips her shoulder suggestively and David fumbles off his seat and knocks over an open bottle of glue. He watches in horror as it spreads across the table and he scrambles to find paper towels to stop the slow motion deluge.

When he looks up, Alexis is gone, but David knows she'll be back like a horny moth to a sexually frustrated flame.

***

David does contemplate what it would mean to be just friends with Patrick. He's never had a work friend before. The gallery was his first real job, but he was the boss, at least on paper. He employed people there, sure, but they weren't his friends. He didn't really care about what they did outside the four walls of the exhibit space and sometimes not even what they did inside its walls either. At the Blouse Barn, there was just Wendy who was a person David didn't hate, but certainly didn't consider a friend. But he cares about Patrick beyond just the school. He wants to know what he eats for dinner—he actually cooks real recipes that require thought and pre-planning and this fascinates David—and what shows he watches on Netflix before he goes to bed and what he does during the 48 hours they spend apart every weekend.

David and Stevie are friends now, he muses, so he knows that he can be friends with someone he finds attractive. Or thinks is cute. But in a boyishly dorky way that's more endearing than sexual. He can put aside whatever fantasies he might have entertained when Patrick appeared with those flashy forearms and staggering smile to save him from the vending machine's wrath. No ulterior motives, no expectations, just friends.

_Easy_, David tells himself. Just friends with no sexual tension anywhere.


	2. The Quadratic Formula

There's sexual tension everywhere. It's dripping down the walls and invading the hallways. It lingers in the cafeteria like the scent of microwaved fish and it's taken up permanent residence in the staff room. The Xerox machine practically vibrates with it and David is sure one day it's going to spontaneously spit out splotchy copies that read "David <3s Patrick" on pastel-colored paper.

Even chalk has become an aphrodisiac. David refuses to use the stuff—chalk hands are incorrect and dry him out—but Patrick writes entire dissertations of math formulas on his boards and chalk dust swirls around him all day long like a fine mist. His pants always bear the ghostly white imprint of his hands, generally on the seat of his tight denim jeans—but David swears he only really looked that one time. It has gotten so bad that David has resorted to sniffing his acrylic paints at least three times a day to get the smell of chalk out of his nostrils before he does something stupid.

When it's proposed that they petition the school board for SMART interactive whiteboards to replace the decades-old chalkboards at one of their weekly staff meetings, David nearly jumps out of his seat to voice his approval. The other teachers laugh at his sudden interest in school-related matters, but when David sinks back into his chair with flaming cheeks, he notices Patrick looking at him with a bemused grin. It makes Patrick's little ears climb up the side of his head and David really wishes that was a thing he did not know they could do, all perky and pink against his close-cropped bronze hair.

Another time, at the beginning of March, David stays late to grade the watercolor assignment for his advanced art class. Some of the students, he realizes with a shock, are genuinely talented. He would have hung their work in his gallery during one of their young artist nights and he fervently hopes these creative souls find a way to get out of this town to someplace where the paint flows more freely, where the canvas doesn't have to be stretched so thin. He's just locking up when he hears the click clack of tap shoes on the hard linoleum floor. He slides his key out of the lock and is greeted not with a dancer but Patrick, dressed in an alarmingly tight baseball costume, ballcap cocked slightly askew above his wind-reddened face. A dream in polyester blend sent to torture David, clearly.

"What is....what are you wearing?" David barely manages to croak out. He feels his own face flush to match Patrick's.

Patrick reaches into his back pocket to pull out his own classroom key, giving David an even better view of his round ass, solid thighs, and surprisingly defined calves ending in the most hideous shoes lined with metal teeth. David feels sure that if he looks at Patrick's forearms, he might disintegrate right where he stands. Best just to focus on those tragic _ things _ on his feet.

Patrick smiles breezily, obviously unaware of the catastrophic effect he's having on David. "Oh. I'm helping to coach the JV baseball team this year. Practice just started this week. So you'll probably see me in this uniform a lot more."

"Neat," David says in a clipped voice, jamming his key into his pocket. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye, David," Patrick says warmly, his key now lodged into the keyhole of his classroom door and forearms twisting and flexing as they turn the doorknob open.

David regrets everything—especially the lingering glance he can’t help but give Patrick's arms—and goes home to take a cold shower. Baseball season requires a lot of cold showers.

***

And then there’s a lice outbreak at the school. Alexis gets them. David is positive the infestation will spread to him. He’s surrounded by lice incubators all day long so it feels as inevitable as gray hairs and love handles. And Alexis thinks she got her lice from Kelsey, "the horse girl," who also happens to be in David’s second period photography class, so he’s all but assured to get them. He’s stressing about it to Patrick, who’s studying David with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. David actually kind of loves that look. It looks good on Patrick’s face, like it was built for that particular brand of smiling/not smiling. When he tries not to smile, his cheeks form tiny parentheses as if to emphasize the not-smile—which somehow makes it better than a real smile. 

"David, I’m sure you don’t have lice. I’ve been teaching for several years now and I’ve gone through several lice outbreaks and never gotten them." Patrick is trying to be reassuring, David knows, but it does nothing to alleviate his completely justifiable and not-at-all irrational concerns. Teachers deserve hazardous duty pay just as much as soldiers or firefighters, David thinks. 

David is also very, _ very _ concerned that Patrick is so blasé about living through multiple lice epidemics. "That’s easy for you to say,” David says indignantly. “You have very short hair that looks like a brillo pad in the back. It doesn’t seem like an adequate breeding ground for vermin. But my hair is like the Ritz Carlton of lice accommodations." 

Patrick’s eyes track to David’s head which is currently covered by a knit hat. David likes to think of it as a bold fashion choice which may catch on among his more advanced students. 

"Is that...are you wearing a shower cap under there?" Patrick asks with a slight twist to his mouth.

"No?" 

The not-smile and their wildly emphatic parentheses are back. David would be offended if he wasn’t so captivated by it. 

"Then what is it?" Patrick asks, mocking him fondly.

"A protective barrier between my head and the lice-ridden world where we live!" 

"A protective barrier...like a condom for your head?" 

"Ew." But also, this might be the most sexually charged conversation they’ve ever had so David is feeling very conflicted about everything right now and he does not appreciate that. He’d really prefer to freak out about one thing at a time.

And then Patrick is inviting David to stay at his apartment, of all places, and telling him things like he can crash there to protect himself from the licepocalypse and that he’s here to support him during this difficult time. David wants desperately to say yes to Patrick’s invitation, but he doesn’t trust himself around Patrick’s naked forearms and whatever pajama situation Patrick might favor so he politely declines, claiming that Stevie already offered him a place to crash. She’s going to love that.

But that night while lying in bed next to Stevie—who says horrible things about how she likes this for him and that he seems flustered when he mentions Patrick—David imagines a world in which he did say yes to Patrick, where they talk late into the night, where Patrick brushes his fingers across David’s cheek, and David leans in to kiss him, and they never let go, lice be damned.

***

When Stevie decides to get rid of an old couch from one of the motel rooms, David determines that it should find a new home in his classroom. He practically forces Jocelyn to let him borrow their truck and then wrangles Patrick into helping him move it on a Saturday afternoon. He doesn’t even think about the fact that this will be the first time Stevie and Patrick will meet until he’s at the door of room number four and Stevie is looking at him with her trademark air of amused annoyance.

Patrick takes one look at the couch, with its bulging springs and stunning resemblance to an over-baked triscuit and gawks at David with wide, incredulous eyes. 

"David, you can’t put this couch in a high school classroom. Your students will catch chlamydia just looking at it!"

"For the record, I will be fumigating the entire thing before any underage youths sit on it, and I have a slipcover for it. I’m not a monster." 

Patrick sucks in a breath through the side of his lopsided mouth. "Well...maybe not a full monster. Maybe just a gargoyle."

"No, he’s definitely a full mutant, at least," Stevie deadpans. 

"Perhaps a yeti?" Patrick counters, turning to Stevie. "On account of all the hair. And the fear of lice."

Stevie laughs, but it’s a broken sort of thing, half bark, half hiccup. "I like him," Stevie says, turning to David, but clearly perplexed by this new and unusual feeling. 

Stevie looks back at Patrick. "I like you." Patrick smiles his most winning smile and David hates everything about this.

"This is really fun for me. I’m having a lot of fun." It’s not fun at all. He never should have let Stevie and Patrick be in the same room at the same time together. They’ll run off together and forget all about him. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. "Can we please move this thing now?" 

It requires a lot of grunting and some bragging on Patrick’s part about how much he excels at Tetris, but the couch finally makes its way out of the hotel room. They almost don’t manage to get it into the bed of the truck even with Stevie providing unhelpful encouragement from the side as she sips a warm beer. "I could call Jake to come help if you need more muscle," she offers with a devilish glint in her eyes.

David mouths _ don’t you even dare _ with venomous eyes at the same time Patrick asks "who’s Jake?" with the ease of someone who doesn’t understand that every interaction between Stevie and David is loaded with land mines. David gracefully deflects the question by ungracefully hefting the couch with his whole body. 

Couch finally loaded up, David and Patrick head back to the school to do it all over again, the battle against the couch becoming longer and harder as they drag it down the eerily quiet corridor. David regrets everything as he huffs and puffs and pivots the couch into the too-small door of the classroom. 

But once the couch is fitted into the small space on the side of the room, tucked under a board with select students' art pieces, David thinks it was worth the effort. He likes it in this space. It feels right somehow. 

David gets to work with the Febreeze and disinfectant while Patrick sinks onto one of the hard metal stools at the closest table. There’s the tiniest track of sweat on his brow and David likes it. Likes him so much even when he’s a little sloppy. David swallows hard and turns back to the couch.

"Can I offer a piece of unsolicited advice?" Patrick asks tentatively, his fingers drumming nervously against the black top of the table as David finishes up his ministrations. 

When David turns back to look at Patrick’s face, the sweat is gone—_ pity _—but a blush has started to creep up in its place. 

"If you must," David says, giving one final spritz and sitting down on the stool across from Patrick.

Patrick exhales slowly. "I know you’re just a substitute teacher and you probably haven’t been trained in pedagogical theory or anything—"

David knows he’s a fake, but he thought Patrick didn’t mind that, thought he still respected him despite that. And David thinks he’s actually doing a respectable job—all things considered—and he’s mostly been using Mr. Stewart’s lesson plans anyway. He’s only embellished them a tiny bit. 

"—but I can’t help but notice how the students seem to really like you. I even heard Cole Roberts complimenting you on your shoes." 

Well, this is a surprise. 

"I do vibe with a much younger crowd," David replies with a satisfied smile. "And you can’t blame a kid for having good taste in shoes."

Patrick looks down at David’s shoes curiously like he’s never really noticed them before. "Aren’t they just Converse?"

David is horrified. "Converse? I am almost offended, Patrick. These are Rick Owens."

"Sure, David." His voice sounds almost patronizing, but his smile says otherwise. 

"Do you not understand how expensive these shoes are?"

Patrick looks at David patiently. "Obviously, I do not." 

They stare at each other, eyes locked and teasing, and it still may be the nicest thing David has felt. Patrick finally breaks his gaze and clears his throat. 

"The thing about teaching high school students is that it’s better if you aren’t trying to be their friend. You’re still the adult and they’re still just kids. And we have to challenge them. It’s harder to do, but it’s worth it in the end."

David thinks about his past teachers, how they let him get away with anything because his parents’ money could buy him out of any mistake he made. He wonders how his life would have been different if there had been a Mr. Brewer to give him a hard time, to make him be more than what he naturally was. What might he have achieved if he’d truly been challenged? 

"OK." David tries to say it with a smile, but he’s not sure he manages it. 

Patrick swivels his body to face the couch. "So I guess I worry about the message the couch sends. And not just because of the diseases it probably carries."

David considers this before finally answering. "I do want the couch to send a message. But not the one you think. It’s not about being the cool teacher. Although, for the record, I am very cool."

Patrick’s face gIimmers with a gentle fondness before an unsuppressed smile takes over his whole face.

David continues on in spite of Patrick’s horrifically beautiful smile because there is a lesson his high school years did teach him. "One thing I do know is that everyone needs a place where they feel like they belong, where they feel safe to express themselves. I think you must realize that it wasn’t always easy for me to be like this"—David gesticulates to his whole body—"growing up. And if this room and this couch make some students feel like they belong somewhere, then that’s worth something, too."

Patrick looks stricken. His lips compress into a straight line but David can see the traces of pain in the soft clench of his jaw, the dilation of his eyes. Patrick, too, knows what it means to not fit in, David realizes. He wears his normalness like an easy shield, but maybe there’s much more there, hidden depths he won’t let David see. Not now, maybe not ever.

"I stand corrected, David," Patrick says quietly, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear his secret shame that David Rose, substitute art teacher, made a good point, _ pedagogically _speaking. (David’s going to look that word up when he gets home. Or maybe just ask his mother.) 

David clears his throat. "So was this little speech meant to challenge me as a teacher? Are you my teacher for how to be a teacher now?" It comes out way flirtier than he intended. Or maybe he did intend it that way. Or maybe the disinfectant has gone to his head.

"Just some well-intentioned advice," Patrick says with a sheepish shrug. 

"Oh, good. I was afraid this was your way of saying we couldn’t be friends anymore."

Patrick smiles shyly and looks down at his terrible mountaineering shoes. At least they’re not cleats this time. "We are friends, David. I think we can learn a lot from each other." 

It’s what David thought he wanted to hear, but it turns out he was wrong. He wants to be something so much more than Patrick’s friend.

***

The next week, David agrees to watch a baseball game in the spirit of friendship. He’s not sure how he lets this happen but Patrick shows up to school in a disturbingly tight two-toned baseball tee in anticipation of his little troupe’s afterschool game and Patrick’s biceps and chest are _ right there _ and not masked by his normal button-down armor and David is weak. Patrick asks him to come in this adorably bashful way that’s tinged with something like hope even though Patrick knows David’s stance on team sports. Inside his head, David is screaming no but his traitorous mouth says yes before the two can confer with each other. 

So David dutifully meets Patrick in the hallway after all the students have fled at the end of the school day and they head to the baseball court together. This could be nice, David thinks, and he’s proud of himself for trying new things, for doing this friend thing so well. 

That is until Jake shows up out of nowhere, all tall and vacuously handsome in his faded flannel shirt and low slung jeans. The exact opposite of Patrick, David now realizes and really, what did he even see in Jake to begin with? More importantly, what the hell is Jake doing at the high school?

"Jake. What are you doing here?" David cries, desperately wishing there was some corner he could hide in, but it’s just one long corridor full of dented metal lockers and David knows he’d never manage to fit into one of those. 

"David, hi." Jake says in that laconic drawl of his and before David knows what is happening, he’s leaning in to kiss David right on his unwilling lips. 

Patrick, meanwhile, looks stunned but it quickly switches to infuriated. David looks back to Jake, still waiting for some sort of explanation. He waits for Jake’s brain to catch up. 

"Oh, yeah," Jake finally replies. "I teach an elective woodworking class during sixth period as a favor for Mr. Wells. We go way back. Old family friend. He helped me graduate high school in only five years."

"Great. OK." David has no idea what else to say. He’s too afraid to look at Patrick, but David can feel the sharp line of him tensed against his side. 

"Well, hopefully I'll see you around more, David Rose. It's been too long." And with that, Jake saunters off.

David's face burns with shame? embarrassment? as he finally turns to Patrick. He's ready to laugh it off, but he takes one look at the furious set of Patrick's eyes, the flushed skin of his exposed neck, his clenched fists, and stops. 

"I can't believe you kissed that guy in the middle of the hallway. Any of the students could have seen you. That is wildly unprofessional," Patrick bursts out like a dam exploding. David hears the disappointment in his voice. Disappointment or something else?

"OK, first of all, I didn't want any of that. We only had a fling and I ended it months ago." David waves his hand in emphatic circles in the general direction of the door where Jake had exited. "And second of all, there aren’t any students here."

"Not right now, but there could have been."

David groans. "I'm still failing to see how this is my fault."

Patrick nods his head, just slightly. "Maybe you should just go home, David. I know you don't really want to watch baseball."

"No, I'm excited about the baseball. You said there would be snacks, so." David gestures to Patrick to keep walking. 

"I think...I think I'd like it better if you didn't come after all." Patrick finally looks up at David, eyes distant but bright. 

"Oh. OK." David says quietly, trying not to let the hurt creep into his voice. David has had plenty of experience with making people mad at him. Most of the time, he understood their anger, could even justify it to himself as explanation for why he let himself be treated so poorly time and again. But he never anticipated it from the likes of Patrick Brewer, who has always radiated a gentle sort of kindness beneath his particular brand of menacing banter. 

Patrick strides off before anything more can be said. David has no idea what the hell just happened. But he now recognizes that the look in Patrick’s eyes wasn’t anger, but regret.

***

Things have been awkward between David and Patrick since Jake and the baseball game. They still tease one another but it’s excessively polite and the hallway between their corresponding doors has started to feel like the continental divide. And yet David still feels like he did something wrong, but he has no idea what he could apologize for. Not that he thinks he needs to apologize because he didn’t actually do anything wrong. Right? 

When David has his next chocolate-related emergency, he decides to ignore all of that in favor of barging into Patrick's classroom to steal another candy bar before their shared prep period begins. He flings open the door only to discover Patrick asleep at his desk. How he can sleep sitting up like that with his head cradled on his open palm and bent elbow is beyond David. Patrick's mouth is slightly ajar, sweetly soft. His eyelashes are longer than David ever noticed, pale against his rounded cheeks just like his barely there eyebrows. His face is slack but somehow also lined with his tiredness, a question mark carved into the dip of his brow where it meets his nose. 

David tentatively reaches out a hand and touches Patrick's shoulder. "Hey, Patrick."

Patrick jerks awake, eyes flying open suddenly with incomprehension, face rippling like disturbed water, until they find David's and his face calms and settles into his normal easy facade. But for a moment, David sees the truth beneath the calm exterior that Patrick always exudes. He looks like David often feels: lost and unsteady in the world. 

"David, hey." He rubs his bleary eyes. "Sorry. I couldn’t sleep last night so I went out early this morning for a hike. Guess it’s finally catching up to me."

"OK. Come on, up you go." Patrick feels deliciously warm and pliable in the way that only recently sleeping people are, as David reaches a hand under Patrick’s bicep and hauls him to his feet. "You’ll be more comfortable on my couch." 

"Not the syphilis couch," Patrick says with a weary laugh, but he doesn’t protest further when David leads him across the hall. Patrick is surprisingly dense and his feet are uncharacteristically clumsy and it takes longer than it should. 

"Why in the world would you go for a walk in the dark out in nature on purpose?" David huffs. An early morning hike sounds like a horrible idea. There was probably poison oak, quite possibly bears, and most certainly flying insects.

"Helps me think," Patrick slurs, looking deep into David’s eyes as if he should understand, "Lots to think about." But he says this as if David is to blame.

David snorts in response. "Did you happen to think about why you were such a jerk to me about Jake and the baseball game?" 

"I'm sorry about that," Patrick replies faintly, repentantly. "It wasn't about you...not really."

Patrick's eyes are solemn, his face drawn and ripped with lines. He looks exhausted down to his very bones. David steers Patrick to the couch, bodily lowers him down, and tucks him into its lumpy polyfill embrace with gentle, careful hands. He grabs the fleece blanket one of his students brought in and spreads it over Patrick’s legs and torso like he’s done this a hundred times before. 

"What was it about then? Really?" David asks, crouching down next to the couch. This is maybe his only chance to get an answer.

Patrick blinks at David owlishly, like he’s only just realized this conversation is really happening and it isn’t all a dream. "About the things I can't control." 

"OK." David says, letting his hands settle together on the couch next to Patrick. 

"It is OK though?" Patrick asks and nothing has sounded so forlorn to David’s ears. 

"Well, are you going to be a jerk to me again?"

"No," Patrick responds quickly. "At least, not intentionally," he amends. 

David chews on the inside of his mouth before answering. "Then it's OK, Patrick."

"At least you didn't have to endure a baseball game," Patrick says in a feeble attempt at a joke.

David laughs in his own feeble attempt to make things right again. "I was actually looking forward to watching my very first baseball game."

"Next time," Patrick promises.

"Next time," David agrees, patting Patrick’s blanket-covered leg as he rises inelegantly up to his feet. David hasn’t even made it back to his desk before Patrick’s eyes have fluttered shut again and his breathing has evened out.

While Patrick sleeps, David sits at his desk, a quiet sentinel to guard Patrick’s stolen nap, his charcoal pencil scraping over his sketch pad to the cadence of Patrick’s measured breaths. He used to count all the things he’d lost—wealth, status, prestige—but now he finds himself counting the things he’s gained. Like how he used to doodle all the time, just loops and scribbles on every open margin, but he lost the habit somewhere between puberty and realizing his family's money ensured that no one cared what talents he possessed so long as he was paying. He used to sell art, sure, but he’d forgotten that he’d once made art himself.

He looks down at his paper, smudged around the edges where his hands have dragged through the scratches. He hadn't even realized that the lines and curves he'd absentmindedly drawn had formed a hand, large and muscular, cupping a weary face with rounded mouth and straight nose. 

_ Patrick. _ David wants him more than he possibly say. Of all the things he's gained, this friendship might be the most unexpected and most precious. He’s ruined so many things in his life, but he doesn’t want to wreck this. So he rips the paper from his pad, and tucks the single sheet firmly into the dark recesses of his desk drawer and promises to forget all about the soft cupid's bow of Patrick's lips or the perfect cut of his jaw where it meets his neck. When he walks back to the couch before the next bell, David tells himself lies about how he won't let his hand linger on Patrick’s warm and perfectly crafted arm when he nudges him awake.

***

It gets easier. Being Patrick’s friend. At least it doesn’t get harder. Not that thinking about Patrick makes David hard. Because it doesn’t. Not in public at least.

And it’s nice to have a friend at work. The other teachers are still slightly daunted by the unusual art teacher who resembles a piece of art himself. They engage him in small talk here or there, but largely he’s left to himself which suits David just fine. Except Patrick. Patrick just invites himself right into David’s room like an overly confident stray cat and curls up on the couch to tease David during their shared prep period like it’s his favorite part of the day. David notices that Patrick doesn’t seem as concerned with catching a venereal disease from the couch now that he’s slept on it.

The couch has become a magnet for his students as well. They fight over who gets to sit there during class periods and a group of arty outcasts have taken to eating their lunches there every day. Some of their friends aren’t even in David’s classes, but they greet him with a familiar "Mr. Rose" and tell him about their lives and projects nonetheless. David is surprised to find that he doesn’t hate it. 

But now it’s their shared prep period and no students are around. Patrick is lying on the couch, feet propped incorrectly on the armrest as David hangs up some new student artwork on the wall next to the couch. Patrick looks around the room and smiles. 

"I’ve gotta say, you’ve really put your mark on this space, David." 

David nods his head, eyes dancing around the room, taking in all the bits that he loves best—his desk that wobbles just a bit because there’s one short leg, the shelves of worn art supplies, the black tables with their years of paint build-up and scabs of dried glue, and the ever-present scent of chemicals and paint. He spends so much time in this room and it feels more like a home to him than the motel now. Not that the motel has ever really been his home in his mind. 

"It’s not bad," he finally says, drinking in the warmth of the room and Patrick inside it. "It’d be better if I didn’t have to see it before 10:00 am though." 

And it feels good, David realizes, to have a job that means something, a purpose beyond himself. A place where he feels like he belongs, just like his students. And a friend by his side who sees him for all that he is. 


	3. Sine, Cosine, and Tangent

At the end of April, David gets roped into being a "team player" which honestly makes him feel a little itchy. (He checks. It’s not lice.) He’s at yet another boring staff meeting where they’re talking about graduation rates and testing schedules and David is maybe more concerned about the fact that Patrick has forgotten to button one of his goddamn buttons and he can see the delicious jut of his collarbone where it dips to meet his neck and he’s just fantasizing about biting into that wide expanse of alabaster skin like he's in some bad romance novel when the principal calls his name. 

"Mr. Rose. We’d love to have you head up our prom committee."

"Excuse me, what?" David drags his eyes from Patrick’s chest with regret. "That’s not in my contract, I’m pretty sure."

"Well, every other teacher already has extracurricular committees and clubs and teams that they are in charge of. You’re the only one with no after-school duties. We’d love you to bring your artistic eye to the dance this year." Mr. Wells raises his quivering eyebrows in anticipation. 

David looks at Patrick’s face, all bright and encouraging. Patrick loves extracurriculars, loves to volunteer. He helps coach the baseball team and supervises the math club the second and fourth Wednesday of every month during lunchtime. It could explain why David is always a little more grumpy and irritable the second and fourth Wednesday of every month, but there’s really no proof of that. Everyone knows Wednesdays are the worst, anyway. But David does wonder if Patrick would like a more altruistic version of him. It couldn’t hurt to try, at least. 

"Well, I guess I can mood board a few ideas," David says with an exaggerated shrug and a roll of his eyes. 

When he looks across the room, Patrick is giving him a dorky double thumbs up that would be disturbing if it weren’t so damn adorable. 

***

At the beginning of May, three weeks before prom—which has taken over David’s whole life, so much for altruism—Patrick stops by David’s classroom, neon green flyer in hand, and invites him to the Elmdale Arthouse for an ‘80s movie marathon that Saturday.

"Looks like a pretty decent list," Patrick says casually as if this isn’t the first time he’s invited David to do something outside of school aside from the aborted baseball game. Is Patrick asking him on a date? He really hopes this is a date. But then Patrick says, "It sounds like you could really use a break from prom preparations. You seem a little...stressed."

So if it is a date, it's a pity date.

David glances at the list and gasps when he sees one of his favorite childhood movies, a truly terrible dirt bike rom-com called _ Rad_, listed between _ The Breakfast Club _ and _ Sixteen Candles. _

"OK, well, we definitely have to watch _ Rad_." Date or no date, David needs to see this movie again, if only for its nostalgic comfort. 

Patrick grunts charmingly. "I’ve never heard of that one. What’s it about?"

"Who knows?" David laughs. "Something about BMX racing. But the important thing is that there is a [slow motion bike duet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPVJzi7Ta9w) at a school dance set to 'Send Me an Angel.' It’s incredible." 

"Sounds cool." But Patrick’s voice lilts up as if it’s a question and he doesn’t really believe David. 

"Did you not hear what I said? They dance _on their dirt bikes _ together in a school gym. You can’t ever unsee something like that. We have to go." David hands the flyer back to Patrick with both hands as if the matter has been settled. 

"Hoping to pull something off like this for prom?" Patrick asks with a sly grin. He folds the flyer up and sticks it in his back pocket.

"God, wouldn’t that be something?"

Patrick laughs at David’s almost dreamy face. "And how did you ever see this little known gem of a movie?"

"Well, Patrick, when your father owns a chain of video rental stores, you get sent screeners for literally every movie. I’ve seen a lot of movies. I must have worn out the VHS tape on this movie as a kid."

"VHS?" Patrick teases, because he apparently knows no other way to talk to David. 

"Yes, VHS. Don’t pretend you’re not old enough to remember those. I know you’re not that much younger than me."

Patrick’s eyes sparkle in the low light of the classroom. Both hands are shoved deep into his pockets and it’s deeply disconcerting to David how far they can fit in there. 

"Great. Well, why don’t I come pick you up around 2:00 tomorrow. Room seven at the motel, right?"

"Yes, that’s right." David replies. He’s embarrassed that Patrick already seems to know where he lives when he’s never told him, but it’s not like he should be surprised. It’s a well-known fact that the Roses live at the Schitt’s Creek Motel because no one can keep a secret in this whole damn town. Stevie was probably the one who told him. He never should have let them meet. 

"Looking forward to it, David."

"It’s a date, Patrick." But Patrick is already in the hallway when David whispers his response to the empty room.

***

The Elmdale Arthouse is a crumbling building with an art deco facade and a weary marquee with several burnt out lights. It’s not an auspicious setting for David’s first date with Patrick—is it a date though? Patrick hasn’t actually said—and David would have turned right around and left after taking one look at the death contraptions they call seats had he not so desperately wanted to sit in a dark room next to Patrick Brewer. 

Patrick has assembled quite possibly the most perfect selection of snacks—salty and sweet, crunchy and chewy, chocolatey and sugary—and David is sure he’s never been more excited for a first...whatever this is...in his life. What he won’t tell Patrick is that he hasn’t actually seen many movies in a real movie theater. They had their own in-home theater at their mansion growing up and every single movie was at his disposal as soon as it came out so he never felt the need to trek out to watch movies with the masses. Just another thing his unusual upbringing took from him, the simple pleasure of laughing or crying over a movie with a room full of strangers. Maybe he would have understood people more if he’d had more experiences like that as a kid. 

Once the movie starts, David finds himself watching Patrick’s face more often than the actual movie, because he loves watching Patrick’s expression change from laughter to incredulity to surprise. He seems to be enjoying himself even though the movie has not aged well and is, in fact, more cheesy than David ever appreciated. Patrick’s mouth hangs open in O-shaped delight throughout the dirt bike dance duet and David wonders what kind of shape it would make if he leaned over and kissed him right now.

Patrick’s smile is relaxed and easy when the movie ends even though he’s got a bulleted list of all the plot holes and problems with the film. But then he asks David if he’s up for the next one—_ Sixteen Candles _—and David says yes before the question is even fully out of Patrick’s mouth. 

"You ever do anything like that?" Patrick asks, reaching for some popcorn from the tub wedged between David’s knees, while they wait for the next movie to start. 

"What? Dirt biking? Please." David scoffs. As if he would let himself get that dirty. With actual dirt.

"No," Patrick gives him a small grin. "Disobey your parents like that?"

David straightens up, looks away, and clears his throat. "That would have required my parents to pay attention to me. They didn’t really seem to care much. Back then."

"Oh," Patrick looks apologetic. He also looks like the kind of child who was doted on and paid attention to by deeply conscientious and involved parents. The kind of child who maybe wanted less direct focus on them so they could figure out themselves without feeling like they were under a microscope, without feeling like they couldn’t make a mistake.

"I did a lot of dumb and reckless stuff as a teenager," David says. "Asymmetrical haircuts and candy ravers. Too much sex with the wrong people. That sort of thing. You’d think my mom would have said something about the haircuts at least." 

David’s tries to make light of it, because he can see the humor in the absurd way he was raised, the obscene wealth and obnoxious entitlement laced into the embroidery of his childhood and lingering adolescence. He used to fantasize about getting back to his old life—his real life, he’d tell himself—but as the days and months in Schitt’s Creek have turned into years, that life feels less and less real, and less and less worth returning to. The old David never would have gone to a party in a dilapidated wooden barn and genuinely enjoyed himself. The old David never would have danced with his family in a circle all around him and stuttered "I love you" and known that he meant it. He never would have known. 

"You think we would have been friends if we’d have gone to high school together?" Patrick asks, as if this might be a fun thought experiment. He’s also picking through the remaining kernels of popcorn and David can feel Patrick’s nails scrape against the thin side of the cardboard bucket still wedged between his thighs and it’s taking all of David’s willpower not to groan from the agony of it all. 

David clears his throat aggressively. "Friends with Patrick Brewer, captain of the baseball team, mathlete, and future business major? Absolutely not." David teases, although he’s sure there’s some truth to the words. Even the David of two years ago would never have given Patrick a second glance.

"You forgot star of the high school musical," Patrick says, licking the butter off his fingers. 

David swallows audibly, more because of the licking than the musicals. "Oh, God. You sing and dance too?" 

"Singing, yes. I don’t think you can call what I do dancing."

David really, really hopes a video of Patrick Brewer singing and dancing in his high school production of _ Bye, Bye Birdie _ exists somewhere and that the universe loves him enough to let him witness it some day. He hopes that day is soon. 

"Then no, Patrick. We definitely would not have been friends in high school."

"Why not?" Patrick seems genuinely surprised to hear David say that and it really is quite precious that he thinks David was worthy of being his friend back then. 

"You never would have noticed me, first of all. I bet you were pretty popular."

"I’d have noticed you, David. I noticed you right away." The theater is too dark for David to tell if Patrick is blushing but if the way Patrick can’t meet David’s eyes right now is any indication then Patrick is totally blushing. 

"What? Verbally attacking a vending machine? I was kinda hard to miss."

"No, before that. I...um...noticed you your first day of teaching. You were wearing that sweater with all the lines on the front?"

Patrick must be describing one of David’s favorite Rick Owens sweaters, the one with a cascade of horizontal lines like a ladder down his chest. The one he did wear his first day of teaching. It’s his lucky sweater, the one he wore when he opened his first gallery and went on his first date with Anderson Cooper. (So maybe he shouldn’t really consider it so lucky anymore.) But he hasn’t really worn it since then so maybe Patrick really did see David that day...and notice him. Remember him. 

"I find you fascinating, David. If you can’t tell. I would have thought that in high school too. Even if I was a mathlete." Patrick’s smile is disarming. David is disarmed. 

The theater darkens completely without warning, but David can’t focus on anything, not even Jake Ryan’s beautiful hair and cheekbones. He’s classically handsome, sure, but do his eyes crinkle at the corners like Patrick’s when he’s laughing full and free? Does his mouth twitch and twist like Patrick’s when he’s about to tease? Does he look into your eyes and make you feel like you can see all the way down to his wide-open heart?

Only Patrick is like that. 

David keeps his hand gently poised on his knee just in case Patrick wants to hold it, just in case this is really a date, just in case "fascinating" means something else. His hand tingles in anticipation of the feel of Patrick’s blunt-edged fingers sliding through his own. And even though it never happens, even though his hand stays empty throughout the whole movie, David’s heart is still full of "I find you fascinating" and that will have to be enough. He’ll make it enough. 

***

Prom is a week away and David has never been more stressed out in his life, trying to get all the decorations finished and coordinating all the details with the rest of the committee. He bribes his advanced art students into helping him with vague promises of "extra credit"—as if that’s a thing—and skips lunch most days to keep working on painting the backdrops with large dollops of blue speckled paint. 

The day before prom, Patrick finds David in the art classroom during their lunch hour taking a rare break before he heads back to the gym to hang more stars from the decrepit gym ladder. 

"Here," Patrick says, extending one of his Tupperware containers toward David. "This is for you."

"What is it?" David asks as he gingerly accepts the translucent green container. 

"Lunch." 

David glances down at the container as if it might explode. "You brought me lunch?"

"Yeah. You haven’t eaten anything for lunch all week. I figured you’d be hungry with all the running around you’ve been doing." Patrick shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal, but David has never had anyone do something so thoughtful for him before. 

"Um. Thank you, Patrick. That’s very nice of you."

Patrick bursts out into nervous laughter. "Well, don’t be too effusive. It’s just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"Oh." David tries to act like that’s totally fine. Not that he’s about to cry over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

But Patrick—who notices everything—notices the hesitance on David’s face. "You’re not allergic to peanuts, are you? You eat all those Snickers, so…"

"No, I’m not allergic to peanuts. I’ve just...I’ve never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before."

"Wait. What? How is that even possible?" Patrick looks truly shocked. 

"I believe my mother referred to them as the uncultured cuisine of the proletariat. Our nanny wasn’t allowed to feed us food like this."

"Wow. You seem so normal sometimes, I forget you’re…." Patrick trails off sheepishly. 

"A mutant?" David suggests with a wry grin. 

"No. That you grew up so differently. Well, I hope your refined palate can tolerate my peasant food."

"Luckily for you, I have very low standards when it comes to food," David says with a barely concealed grin. "Thanks again, Patrick."

"You’re welcome, David. Well, I’ll leave you to it." 

Patrick turns to go, but David remembers something, a something he’s had buried in his desk for a few weeks now. He felt awkward giving Patrick a gift out of the blue, for no reason other than he was thinking of him, but then Patrick brought him a sandwich he made himself, so it feels like the right time. 

"Wait!" David turns to his desk and pulls open his top drawer. "I have something for you too."

Patrick pauses in front of the open door and turns back to David, surprise rippling through his face and forearms. "You do?"

"Yeah. Here."

David hands Patrick a small box with a timid smile. 

"You bought me chalk?" Patrick asks, a hint of wonder and delight mingling together in his words.

David nods. "Yes."

"Chalk?" Patrick repeats, still in awe. 

"Yes. The chalk the school buys is very brittle and makes that awful screeching noise all the time. It’s very distracting. This is a dust-less chalk so it won’t flake off as much...or get all over your clothes because it’s always all over your clothes. And it’s very smooth and strong so it’ll last a lot longer."

Patrick just stares at the chalk in his hands without saying anything. David feels like he did something extraordinarily wrong. This was too much. Maybe Patrick has very strong feelings about art teachers who give him packs of pretentious chalk. 

"Is it weird that I got you chalk?" David asks, nervously fiddling with the lid of the sandwich container which is somehow still in his hands. "It’s weird, isn’t it?" 

Patrick finally looks up and his eyes are like golden brown orbs, alight with a natural warmth that shouldn’t be possible in the artificial lighting of the classroom. "It’s not weird. Thank you, David. I love the chalk."

David nods, just once. His eyes prickle and burn. From tiredness, he tells himself. He’s been working too hard and he doesn't like it one bit.

"Thanks again for the sandwich."

"Of course, David." Patrick turns to go again. "Good luck with everything. I can’t wait to see it tomorrow night."

"Oh," David says in surprise. "You’ll be there?"

"Yup. I signed up to be a chaperone." And with a final half-wave, Patrick is gone. 

David sinks into his chair and pries open the stubborn lid of the sandwich container. He takes a deep breath before biting into his first peanut butter and jelly sandwich and if it’s possible for a sandwich to taste like a person, this one does. The peanut butter is smooth and creamy; it feels like home on David’s tongue. But the jelly peeks through, dangling with tartness on his taste buds like it’s challenging the peanut butter to a duel, its sweet snarkiness overtaking the warmth and steadiness of the peanut butter. He finishes off the whole sandwich, licking jelly from his fingertips, and the taste lingers on his lips long into the day and well into the night. 

***

To the surprise of no one, David is running late for the prom. It’s not his fault, not entirely. He spent the morning at the high school putting up the last of the decorations, and came home to get ready and somehow, totally on accident, fell asleep in a gangly heap on his too-small bed. He woke with a flash of cold-blooded panic and got ready in what David considers a new land speed record. He knows a suit is the expected choice for a dance like this, but David doesn’t like the expected and he just wants to be comfortable anyway. So he’s dressed in his soft black Neil Barrett sweater with one bold zig-zag lightning bolt and his perfectly coiffed hair is standing on end like he’s already been electrified. 

And that’s when David realizes that his family is gone...and the family car with them. So now he needs a ride to the prom just like the majority of the student body population. David heaves an exasperated sigh, swallows the tenuous remains of his pride, and goes to the front office to beg Stevie to take him. She blinks at him rapturously and straightens out the front of her flannel shirt like she’s readying herself for battle.

"You mean you didn’t rent a limo for the night or buy Patrick a carnation boutonniere?"

"No. Why would I do that? And also, carnations are incorrect."

"Just thought you’d enjoy sharing the back of a limo with your high school crush is all," Stevie says with barely concealed elation. Frankly, it’s a little disquieting how much enjoyment she gets out of the pain of others.

David snorts. "You don’t want to know what I’ve done in the back of a limo."

"Can’t be half as bad as what _ I’ve _ done in the back of a limo," Stevie returns. 

"When were _ you _ in the back of a limo?" David asks incredulously. 

"Excuse you. I went to prom."

"The question still stands," David says.

"Fine. It was actually Billy Jackson’s family’s old hearse, but it was still very spacious."

"Ew. Was there still a coffin back there?"

"What do you think?" Stevie raises one eyebrow and like so many times before, David cannot tell if she’s joking or being deadly serious. 

In the end, Stevie does drive David to the high school and doesn’t mock him too relentlessly, or rather, she does but David has built up an immunity to her dry charm. Stevie rolls up right in front of the high school gym and throws her car into park with a flourish, turning to David with a glint in her eye.

"Have fun with Patrick tonight,” Stevie says with a suggestive grin.

"Fall in a grave, please," David says as he unbuckles his seat belt and reaches for the door handle.

"And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!" she warns.

"Which is what exactly?" David asks. 

Stevie's grin widens. "Exactly.”

***

When David walks into the gym, he’s amazed again at what a shit ton of twinkle lights, balloons, and some tissue paper can do. The gym actually looks spectacular, so soft and glowy that you could almost forget how many teenagers have pounded their sweat into the cracks in the floorboards over the years. Even the smell has dissipated, but then again, David was very aggressive with the air freshener and disinfectant. The couch prepared him well. David never attended prom when he was in high school, but he thinks it looks better than all the high school dances he’s seen depicted on screen. And the theme he chose—Starry Night—invokes the swirling magic of Van Gogh’s famous painting. 

The floor begins to fill up with tiny adults and David is relieved to discover that not all of them are tragic fashion victims after all. One or two of them are even passably chic. The DJ is also not awful, David realizes with some surprise; he’s doing a good job mixing up the genres and decades, switching seamlessly between fast songs and slow songs. David wonders if he could get the DJ to play some Mariah or perhaps some Whitney. Maybe this evening won’t be the horror show he’s been expecting.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Patrick appears at David’s side. He’s dressed like he usually is—well-fitted jeans, belt, and blue button-up shirt, no tie—but he’s thrown a decent blue suit coat over it. He’s giving off major dad vibes, but David’s into it; he looks snug and well-contained. Patrick gives him a small wave and a smile and settles in beside the jagged cypress tree David constructed out of cardboard. 

"It looks great, David," Patrick says when there’s a lull in the blaring music between songs. "I’ve never seen it look so un-gymlike."

"I’m going to assume that’s a good thing," David says, pulling at the cuff of his black sweater as a distraction. He’s never learned how to take a compliment head-on. 

"Oh, it very much is."

They stand there in companionable silence through several more songs, both of them unconsciously swaying to the music and smiling at each other whenever they accidentally make eye contact. The song turns slow, a [strummy love ballad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8N-qO3sPMjc) that would normally make David cringe, but feels just about right for this moment. David’s stomach twists as he fixes his eyes to the ground and he sees now that glitter is all over the scuffed-up floor and sprinkled across his best black shoes and he’s not even mad about it. He might even be a little charmed.

Patrick sneaks a glance at David, clears his throat, and says, "You know, if we weren’t the chaperones here and if it weren’t wildly unprofessional, I’d ask you to dance right now."

David thinks he must have misheard his math teacher friend but he takes one look at Patrick’s hopeful face with those wide toffee-colored eyes, the teasing smile, and the hands shoved deep into his pockets, and a tentative smile blossoms across David's face until it’s a full-blown grin. 

"Well," says David, vibrating with the staccato beats of his heart, "If we weren’t the chaperones and if it weren’t wildly unprofessional, I’d say yes. To dancing, with you."

Patrick beams and it’s almost as good as being in his arms, as actually dancing. It feels just as exhilarating, just as shatteringly precious as David has always imagined a moment like this would feel.

"But who would lead," David asks, just to keep the illusion alive, "if we were dancing right now?"

"Oh, I would definitely be leading," Patrick responds swiftly, surely.

"And why’s that?"

"Because I was the one who had the courage to ask," Patrick says matter-of-factly, suddenly bold and confident. "I’d put my arms around your waist and you’d put your arms around my neck."

"So we’re doing it the way the kids are?"

"Yes," Patrick replies without a beat, "We wouldn’t want to stand out. Well, more than you would already make us stand out. And then I’d pull you close."

David can just imagine it, the dizzy spin of awkward feet moving in agonizingly slow circles, how he’d touch the soft nape of Patrick’s neck with careful fingers, how he’d tremble in his arms with the incandescent thrill of it, counting down the stanzas of the song under his breath, of never wanting the moment to end, but also dying of anticipation to see what would come next.

"And after?" David asks, all breathy and unstrung. "When the song is over? What then?"

Patrick smiles, slow like he knows exactly what he’s doing. "And then I’d lean in and kiss you."

"Would you?"

"I would," Patrick says and dammit, he licks his lips when he says it. "If we weren’t chaperones and if it weren’t wildly unprofessional." And he shrugs. He straight up shrugs like he hasn’t just torn David apart from the inside out.

"Quick question," David says, trying to zipper himself back into himself and failing miserably; they’ll have to sweep him up afterwards along with the glitter and deflated balloons. "Is it only wildly unprofessional because we’re currently in a gymnasium full of underage students or is this a scenario that could possibly happen some time in the future when we’re alone?"

Patrick looks at David, his face so impossibly soft, so impossibly open, hope and longing painted into the crevices where the lights dance into them. David has never seen anything so devastatingly beautiful in all his life.

"There’s no explicit rule against teachers dating." Patrick glances away, just briefly, "So it wouldn’t be wildly unprofessional if we were alone." He looks David right in the eye through those infuriating eyelashes, their pinky fingers almost _ almost _ touching as their bodies lean into each other. "And the night is still young, yet."

The song ends and the music shifts into something exuberant and upbeat and the moment is lost into the pounding bass; David can feel it ricocheting through his shoes. Patrick is suddenly pulled into a circle of students by some of his baseball players, leaving David ruined and breathless alone next to the punch bowl, the ghost of Patrick’s verbal embrace around his neck. And David knows now that even if he’d gone to a million high school dances, none of them could possibly compare to Patrick Brewer asking him to dance under a tissue paper moon.

***

When the dance is over, David has to supervise the clean-up crew who make quick work of his painstakingly crafted decorations. He knew it couldn’t last, but seeing the gym back in its original state makes David feel empty and drained. Patrick disappeared long ago and even if he were here, David has no idea how to proceed. Sure, Patrick asked him to dance and sure, he described how he’d kiss him, but did he say those things because he got caught up in the moment or did he say them because he knows how much David wants them to be true? 

The lights are off, the gym is empty once again, and the remaining chaperones and janitors start to leave through the side doors. David waves them on, saying he wants to double check everything, but instead he heads back through the darkened corridors lit only by emergency lights and exit signs to his classroom. He’s just pulling out the key when he notices a sliver of light through the bottom of Patrick’s classroom door. He just assumed he’d fled once he’d realized what he’d actually said to David. 

David doesn’t even blame him. 

But he can’t not check. Right? He has to check. Just to see. So he squares his shoulders with a shaky inhale and knocks softly on Patrick’s door. 

Time stretches around him like an elastic band, ready to spring. It stretches too thin and too long, and David begins to turn back to his own door when the door swooshes open and a disheveled jacketless Patrick is standing in front of him, all wild eyes and slightly chapped lips. He still wants to kiss them, chapped or not.

"David." His name on Patrick’s lips sounds like a both a whisper and a shout. 

"Hey," David feels suddenly shy. He’s never wanted to do anything right more in his life; never felt more horribly underprepared. "I thought you left a long time ago."

"No," Patrick laughs shakily, "No. Just..."

"Hiding from me?" David asks with a twisted cringe. 

"No!" Patrick looks stricken. "Do you really think that, David? Here, do you want to come in?"

David sucks in his lips and nods his head. "Sure. Thanks."

Patrick steps back awkwardly to let David enter his room and then shuts the door with a soft click, but he seems rooted to the spot. His hand still clutches the doorknob as if he’d crumple to the floor if he let go. David looks around the room with its tidy rows of desks and chairs, yesterday’s statistics lesson still on the chalkboard. 

Patrick was brave once tonight; David can do the same. He summons all the courage he can from deep in his toes and blurts out: 

"I want you, Patrick. I think you want me too."

Patrick exhales like it physically pains him. But he steps forward, releasing his hold on the door knob.

"God, David. I do."

David crosses the space between them and cups Patrick’s head, feeling the metal of his silver rings cool against Patrick’s flushed neck. He presses his lips into Patrick’s mouth, all warm and searching. And it’s better than David ever imagined it could be, to be with Patrick like this. It’s just a simple kiss, really, but no less devastating, no less heartstopping. 

When he pulls back, David notices that there are flecks of opalescent chalk in Patrick’s hair, even now, glinting in the low light of the room. They match the glitter stuck to David’s shoes and the flicker of sparks in Patrick’s deep set eyes. One corner of Patrick’s mouth is tucked into his cheek, just the hint of a smile, and David brushes his thumb over it to coax it fully out. 

"Thank you for making that happen for us, David," Patrick says with the most tender eyes and David wants to die from the joy of it. "I’ve never done that before...with a guy. And I was scared that it wasn’t going to happen...even though I said that I would do it, would kiss you." Patrick eyes stray to the cracked curve of David’s lip. "Somehow saying it was easier than doing it, you know?" 

"Well, thank you for asking me to dance," David says with a voice softer than he knew he possessed. "I don’t think I would have have kissed you otherwise."

"Why not?" Patrick gives him a sleepy slow blink and David already wants to kiss him again. 

"Because I didn’t know what your preferences were. You seemed really angry when Jake kissed me, so I thought that maybe you were, well…"

"David, I thought I'd lost my chance with you when Jake kissed you. I was...actually, I was jealous." Patrick envelops David in his arms now and David can feel the solid muscle underneath, the generous expanse of Patrick’s hands as they splay across David’s lower back like Patrick is laying claim to new, uncharted territory.

"You were?"

"Like a white hot rage monster. I never knew I could feel like that. I’d never felt so possessive before and I couldn’t...If I hadn’t already known I was gay, that would have done it."

David pauses as he takes in this new information. "But you said you’ve never been with a man before?"

"Yeah. Figuring out I’m gay is kind of a new thing. Turns out I’m a bit of an idiot." 

"I don't think you're an idiot." But he is. He is kind of an idiot. But David is too so he’ll forgive Patrick just this once.

"Well, I broke up with my girlfriend Rachel when I finally admitted the truth to myself, so I don’t exactly feel great about that. I took this job to start fresh, but I haven't exactly done a great job with that yet. I mean, I tried. I went out to Dude Cave over Christmas break. You know it?"

"I may have heard of it." David will take this to his grave; he can never let Alexis know her sources were correct. He’ll never be able to look Ted in the eye again either. 

"There was one man there I thought was…cute," and oh, Patrick is blushing now and David's full attention is on the apple blossoms growing over Patrick’s cheeks. "And he seemed interested too, but I don’t know. I couldn’t do it." 

"Why not?" David asks. _ God, Patrick is adorable. _

"I don’t know," Patrick says with a measured shrug, turning the full force of his gaze to David. "I guess I was waiting for you."

Patrick leans in, knowing now that David will find him before he loses his way again. David catches Patrick’s lips, hungry and fierce and exquisite as their bodies start to turn to the sound of music only they can hear. And this time, when David closes his eyes, he sees bell curves dancing behind his eyelids, the maddening scent of chalk in his nostrils, and a growing certainty settling into his bones like lightning, like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rad](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091817/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1) is truly terrible, but it was still one of my favorite movies as a kid. But unlike David, my copy wasn't even on VHS. It was on beta. Yes, you heard me right. BETA.
> 
> I am also deeply committed to the idea that Patrick inherited his grandmother's Tupperware collection.


	4. The Pythagorean Theorem

They go back to Patrick’s place because there’s no point in delaying the inevitable, no point in pretending anymore that this isn’t exactly what both of them want. David has never wanted anything more, and from the way Patrick is devouring David with his eyes, David’s pretty sure Patrick feels the same way. David could die of happiness right here, right now, but the funeral will just have to wait. He has things he has to do first. 

Specifically, Patrick. He needs to do Patrick first. 

So far, he’s only managed to get Patrick out of his jacket and shirt and he tries not to gasp when he sees the full extent of Patrick’s naked torso; those dazzling hands and crisp forearms that extend through thick biceps and broad, muscular shoulders. He is an unassuming wonder. 

Patrick works his way slowly under David’s sweater, angling up to press kisses into all of David’s most ticklish and tender spots around his jaw and neck. When the sweater finally makes it over his head and David’s chest is fully exposed, Patrick pauses and stares. David feels a bit like a butterfly trapped under glass, pinned by its wings. 

Patrick runs one hand up the side of David’s torso, thumb flicking over one nipple, fingers floating through the thick dark hair on his chest. Patrick swallows and licks his lips before meeting David’s blistering stare. 

"You’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen," Patrick finally whispers like it’s the truth. 

David fights back the urge to cover himself with his hands. He’s never felt so exposed before, knowing that Patrick sees all of him, not just what’s on the outside. "Well, you’re new to this. I promise I’m not that great." 

But Patrick just laughs at that. "David, I have seen more naked men in locker rooms than you can possibly imagine and I can say with 100% certainty that none of them compare to you. Take the compliment." And he fits his lips into the twin parabolas of David’s mouth like it’s a challenge.

When Patrick finally releases him, David asks, "What do you like about me in particular? Specifically that’s better than...um...other men?" 

"I don’t know, David. I like the shape of you. You have nice shapes."

"The shape of me? That sounds ...very sexy." But there’s a hint of a laugh in David’s voice. 

"David, I’m a math teacher. Geometric shapes are very attractive to me." 

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so."

Patrick leans up to look at David in the eye as he steps even closer to him. David can feel the heat of Patrick’s burnished skin and the thunderous gallop of Patrick’s heart against his own ribcage. David stands still and lets Patrick set the pace, lets him smooth his trembling hands down David’s bare skin, gives him time and space to find his footing. 

Patrick’s hands now stop, resting comfortably on David’s hips. "Take this torso here. I'd like to become intimately acquainted with its radius." Patrick's thumb circles closer and closer to David's navel, dipping tantalizingly beneath the waistband of David's pants. "From there, the circumference is easy enough to find. It's just two times pi times the radius."

"Yes," David smirks. "Pie definitely had something to do with that circumference." 

Patrick pulls back and gives David a look which means, _ stop_, which says, _ you’re beautiful_, which warns, _ don’t criticize yourself,_ which promises, _ you’re mine _.

David tries to ration his breaths, pushing them slowly through his burning lungs and around his erratic heart as Patrick trails his hand around David’s torso to circumnavigate his body so that now he’s standing behind him, staring at the wide expanse of David’s slightly freckled back. 

Patrick reaches soft hands up to David’s shoulders, sweeping them over the nape of his neck and across the curve of his shoulders, down his arms before they careen up the ridges of David’s spine. It should feel ticklish but it feels decidedly not. More like Patrick is igniting small fires in all of David's blood vessels with each touch and stroke.

Patrick's voice comes out rougher now. "Your back looks like a trapezoid. You know, trapezoids might just be my favorite shape because they’re really three shapes in one." David can feel Patrick’s breath on his back, warm with heat as he traces lines across the rigid planes of his shoulders. "They seem complex at first, because you have to divide them into their separate parts before you can begin your calculations." 

Patrick moves so he's standing in front of David again, filling up all the space around him. David likes that about Patrick, how he makes himself bigger than he really is just by the size of his presence and his quiet confidence. Patrick's hands linger on David's shoulders and he looks him right in the eye.

"Still, you wouldn’t want a trapezoid to lose their edges, because then they’d just be a rectangle."

"And rectangles are boring?"

"Oh no. Rectangles are the building blocks of life. We need them. But trapezoids are special. There aren't many of them out in the wild." Patrick pauses, lips caught between his teeth, lashes lowered over ravenous eyes before he meets David’s again with a wink. "They make you work for it. And I happen to love a challenge."

And then Patrick is pressing a firm hand to David's hipbone and it would hurt if it didn't feel so good. "And here, this is my favorite right angle." He fits his whole hand into the line running from David's belly button to his hip.

"Do you remember the Pythagorean theorem, David? This line right here is _ a _ squared," Patrick moves his hand, skimming his palm from the hipbone up David's hammering ribcage to his heart, "plus _ b _ squared" and now a swift angular descent from his breast back to the navel with just his index finger, "equals _ c _ squared."

Patrick looks David square in the eye. "It's the most beautiful hypotenuse I've ever seen. I'd like to make you come all over it." 

David feels all the breath in his body leave and all that’s left is the David that Patrick is building anew with his hands and words and mouth. 

David finally reaches down to teasingly trace the outline of Patrick’s cock through his straining pants. "What about this shape? What formula do you recommend here?"

Patrick’s breath hitches. He closes his eyes and gulps, mouth open, tender neck exposed.

"What do we do," David continues, thumb swirling around the head, and David can’t wait to get Patrick gloriously naked and trace the line of Patrick’s edges with his tongue."When it keeps growing and getting bigger?"

When Patrick opens his eyes, it’s like he can see right into David’s heart and he’s gotten the full measure of it. "Jesus Christ, David," he says, in a whisper, "The things you do to me."

"Come on, Mr. Brewer," David answers, pulling Patrick toward the moonlit bed. "Let’s do some more geometry over here." 

***

The next morning, Patrick wakes David up with coffee and muffins. Where the muffins came from or how he’s already so peskily coherent this early on a Sunday morning is alarming to David but then Patrick is sinking his lips into David's and any complaints he might have had are wiped clean away like an eraser swiping across a chalkboard. 

They lay tangled up in Patrick's bed with its surprisingly decent sheets and nothing has ever been more intimate, nothing has been more right. They order in pizza and laugh over their plates and David could stay bound together like this forever. 

"So," Patrick begins, shoving half his slice into his mouth. David should find that appalling but he really, really doesn't. "We should probably talk about tomorrow."

David thought he'd have a few more blissful hours in this cocoon before he'd have to return to reality, before he'd hear that this was a "one-time thing" or "this can't happen again" or "this was a mistake." David's heard these lines so many times, he can have the whole conversation without Patrick like a build-your-own-adventure story. He wonders what version Patrick will give him now. 

"I think we need to set some ground rules so we can remain professional around our colleagues and students," Patrick continues. 

"Of course. We wouldn't want to be...unprofessional."

David starts to tick off the list in his head: _ don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't eat any more of my chocolate which I certainly did not buy for you _. 

Instead, Patrick says, "Obviously, no kissing at school. No hand-holding. Or maybe just quick pecks on the cheek if there are no students around? We can still eat lunch together, of course, but we should invite other teachers to join us from time to time to not make our relationship so conspicuous. What do you think?"

David stares at Patrick just a moment too long, his brain struggling to catch up to the suggestion in Patrick's words, the suggestion that this not-a-fling is going to continue. Patrick raises his almost invisible eyebrows to encourage David to say something, anything.

"Do you mean you want to keep doing this...with me?" David finally asks. 

Patrick's eyes are inscrutable. "Yeah, that's the plan. You have a problem with that?"

"No, no problem at all. I'd like that very much." _ More than like_, David thinks to himself. 

"Good." Patrick lets his eyes drift to David's lips and back to his eyes. "Any other rules you'd like to add?"

"No. Nope." David says with a barely concealed smile. "I just notice that you didn't include any prohibitions about sex on school grounds."

"I mean, that's definitely not even something we should consider." But Patrick reaches for his glass of water to hide the blush now creeping up his neck and turning his ears a crimson hue.

"That's too bad," David says, reaching for his own drink. "I was just thinking about how much I'd like to fuck you up against that trigonometry poster on your classroom wall. But I guess I can satisfy myself with quick pecks on the cheek when no one's looking."

That Patrick chokes on his water and has to gasp frantically for air as he pounds on his chest only makes David feel even more triumphant, because this is only the best first day of a relationship that David's ever had and it’s only just beginning. His body pulses with an unrelenting zeal now, a steady chorus of _ more, more, more _reverberating in his chest from a heart that has been forged anew by Patrick’s careful, mathematical hands.

***

David has never truly appreciated the sexual enthusiasm of the newly initiated. Patrick wants David any time, all the time, and it is truly inspiring. Except now his buttoned-up, wildly professional math teacher is everywhere, all around him, all the time when he’s not allowed to touch him. He’s winking at David from across the hallway, he’s putting a firm hand on his hip as he slides past him in the staff room, he’s bending over his desk in those tight, tight jeans to grade a test like an absolute tease. It only takes five days before Patrick’s got David shoved up against the wall of the art classroom between the vats of découpage paste and old copies of _ National Geographic _ absolutely wrecking David with his very skilled and insistent tongue, hands destroying David’s still blessedly lice-free hair—_thank god_—when David finally comes around to his senses and decides he’s going to have to be the one to put a stop to it. 

"Patrick," he whispers, though Patrick is currently suctioned to his neck and he hates to interrupt. It took Patrick exactly 24 hours to discover that David goes weak in the knees when Patrick kisses his neck and he’s written arias against the veins of David’s throat in the week since. 

"Patrick." David manages to get his hands in between them and pushes Patrick gently at his shoulders.

Patrick snaps back to himself and looks at David with wild eyes, blown wide with desire. 

"I, for one, am in favor of all of this, but you did say you wanted to keep clear boundaries between personal and professional...um...activities."

Patrick exhales shakily, taking a step back from David. He smiles at David’s bruised lips and mussed hair.

"You’re right. Sorry, David. I definitely got carried away." Patrick reaches up to smooth out David’s troubled hair, but it’s really a lost cause by now. David catches Patrick’s hand in his own and brings it to his chest.

"It’s okay, Patrick. We can definitely get carried away tonight."

Patrick smiles. "It’s a date."

And this time, David says it right back to Patrick’s face, the whole room a witness to his resounding _ yes_. 

***

When David arrives at Patrick's apartment later that night, he’s sheepishly holding an overnight bag, his shoulders already scrunched up to his ears in apology as he stands on the doorstep. 

"I didn't mean to presume, but I may have brought some items I hoped could just stay here." David sets his face in a wince in anticipation of Patrick’s refusal. 

But Patrick merely steps out of the way and points the way to his room. "Of course, David. I already cleared out a drawer for you...just in case. The top shelf in the medicine cabinet is also yours." 

Patrick turns back to the kitchen to finish prepping dinner. It smells delicious, whatever it is, and David can’t wait to eat whatever food Patrick wants to feed him. Not like literally feed him. Though David wouldn’t hate that scenario either, he thinks, as he heads back to Patrick’s tidy bedroom to put away his things. 

When David pulls out the top drawer, the one Patrick cleared just for him—not to brag about it or anything—David finds it empty except for a single Snickers bar. 

***

Three weeks into their...not a relationship (David feels like he’ll jinx it if he calls it that), Alexis cajoles David into coming to Ted’s house for a game night. 

"And why are we going to Ted’s house, anyway?" David asks as he fixes his hair in the bathroom mirror at the motel. "Isn’t he dating someone else right now that isn't you?"

"David, as I have explained, we are just friends. This is just two friends getting together with their other friends for a night of normal friend stuff." Alexis wraps her hair around her fingers and tugs, a clear sign of distress. 

"Then who else have you invited?" David grimaces. Alexis clearly has feelings for her erstwhile fiancé and David doesn’t want to endure another party trapped at Ted’s Very Large Table of Awkward Encounters™.

"I mean, you. And I assume you’ll be bringing Patrick too, right?" Alexis grips her hands together in front of her like an anxious chipmunk. "Stevie said she might find herself in that general area if I offered suitable enticement. I think she was talking about alcohol."

"OK, have you learned nothing from me?" David can’t believe he has to do this on top of everything else he’s got going on right now. "You need at least six people for optimum game play and probably more than that to not make this seem so desperate."

"No one’s desperate, David." Alexis says in a simpering tone. "It was Ted’s idea anyway."

"Was it? You do seem to be quite good at putting ideas into his head. Otherwise, how did you get hired at the clinic?"

"Ugh, David. Can’t you just help me for once? I helped you when you had a total crush on Patrick and now look at you two!"

David decides to be magnanimous and not correct Alexis’ revisionist history about the role she played in bringing him and Patrick together. "Fine. I will talk to Stevie. You need to rustle up some more people. At the very least, one more person."

"But, like, who David?"

David sighs and realizes that he and Alexis have done a terrible job connecting with people in this one stop-sign town. Except each other. Somehow, a person he’s known his entire life is the best thing to come out of this whole place. Her, and Stevie. And now Patrick. Maybe David’s luckier than he thought. 

"Get Twyla. She’s our only hope," David says.

In the end, Stevie comes but she’s cradling the comically large bottle of wine David procured for her like a precious baby. Twyla arrives with some leftover pie—as soon as Patrick sees it, he winks at David, _ winks_—and David tries furiously hard not to blush as he helps unpack Ted’s collection of board games. So they have six which is good for gaming, but not for stemming the unwieldy tide of too many people having too many feelings in Ted's small apartment.

While David is occupied, Stevie sidles up to Patrick who she hasn’t seen since he and David officially started dating. 

"How’s everything going, Patrick?" she asks in a tone that sounds both accusatory and indifferent. 

"Oh, good, Stevie," Patrick smiles and ducks his head a bit. "Things are really good right now."

Stevie quirks up just one lip. No sense in being too encouraging. "I bet they are. It seems like you really like David." 

"Oh, I like him the normal amount," Patrick replies, struggling not to blush. "Like you'd feel for any abominable snowman...or mutant."

But Patrick's fond, fond eyes don't fool Stevie.

"You sure about that?" Stevie raises her one eyebrow with a slight arch.

"OK, what should we play?" David calls from the table. Patrick quickly moves to stand next to David and yanks out Trivial Pursuit. David decides to not let Patrick know how wrong his choice is right away.

"I think we could play this one in teams," Patrick says. "We’d crush the competition. You know entertainment, arts, and geography and I've definitely got sports and science covered. Could be fun." 

David suspects Patrick just likes the game piece with its multi-colored triangular wedges but he keeps the thought to himself and surprises everyone when he agrees to play without a huge fuss. And Stevie claims he's terrible at compromise. 

The game goes incredibly fast—Patrick was right; they were an unstoppable force together—and it’s not long before Stevie sidles up to David as he sets up the next game and says, "Your boyfriend is very competitive. You must be so pleased to find someone who wants to win as badly as you do."

"He's not...we don't...we haven't used the term boyfriend yet. I don't know if he wants that." 

But David's face is quietly enamored and clearly these men are very stupid about each other. Stevie nods at Patrick who is talking to Ted about some sort of accounting software for the vet’s office, but whose eyes haven't stopped staring at David all night.

Stevie takes another long swig from her bottle of wine. "You sure about that?"

***

Patrick is lying on David’s bare chest after Trivial Pursuit victory sex when David notices it for the first time. It’s silly really, to notice such a thing, but it wriggles its way into David’s ventricles and makes his heart squeeze.

"Did you know that you have two freckles right here," David says, one finger tracing the soft ridge of Patrick’s right ear, feeling the reddish-brown constellations that crown the shell of his earlobe.

"I can't really see the top of my ears, David," Patrick says with a muffled laugh, pressing a kiss into David’s chest right above his heart. "So no, I didn’t know. No one’s ever mentioned it to me before."

David doesn’t voice the name that pops unbidden into his head, the person who used to occupy Patrick’s bed. Patrick seems to feel the specter of Rachel’s name and nuzzles his nose into David’s worried cheek, slipping a kiss into the corner of David’s mouth, and nibbling at the plumb swell of his lower lip. David lets Patrick catch his lips in his own and gets distracted by his playful tongue carving its need into his willing mouth before they slowly part and David can speak again. 

"What other things don't you know?" David asks curiously.

Patrick laughs, eyes trained on David’s lips, obviously wanting less words and more kissing. "I don’t know, David. Why don’t you tell me?"

"Did you know Stevie called you my boyfriend tonight?"

"Stevie said a lot of things tonight," but Patrick says it with a laugh. He likes Stevie, David can tell and it’s another thing to add to the list of things he likes about Patrick, that he doesn’t feel threatened by Stevie and seems to genuinely appreciate her droll humor and dry demeanor. That he wants to like and be liked by David’s best friend. 

"Are you, though?" David now asks, feeling like he’s about to fall into a bottomless chasm from which there may be no rescue. "My boyfriend? Is that a thing that you...would want to be?"

And there’s the real truth, a tender bruised edge, the potential black hole of David’s heart. So few have wanted to hold the title of David Rose’s boyfriend—or girlfriend. It’s always felt easier to never define himself in relation to another person. 

There’s a teasing but affectionate smile on Patrick’s lips when he answers. "I want to be. I already kinda thought I was. Don't you want to be my boyfriend?" 

"Yes. I would like that very much. Yes." David smiles into the kiss and it just may be his favorite one yet.

David has kissed a lot of people in his life. There were hungry kisses and bored kisses. There were lazy kisses and drunk-as-a-skunk kisses. There were hurried kisses and please-just-fuck-me kisses. But no one has ever kissed him the way Patrick does, like he wants to know David, inside and out, and keep the taste of him in his mouth long after they’ve parted.

David pulls away slowly, letting his hands settle on Patrick's shoulders. Patrick looks up at David with a glint in his eye, eyes already focused on David’s lips. But then David’s mouth is opening and his voice is speaking before he can get more oxygen to his brain and stop himself.

"Do you know what it feels like when you kiss me?"

Patrick stills at that as he wrests his eyes from David’s lips to meet his eyes. Patrick’s face has gone from teasing to serious. But so has David’s. 

"What does it feel like?" Patrick asks, voice soft and hesitant like the answer might knock him out of his carefully measured orbit.

David looks away, the truth too unbearable to say straight into Patrick’s face. "Like you don’t ever want to kiss anyone else."

"Oh," Patrick says and then he smiles, just a slow stretch of the mouth that makes David's stomach flutter and swoop. "I did already know that."

And the kiss he gives David now is a supernova, the full force of it light years away but the promise of an explosion is already echoing through his bones. 

It's incredible, really, how David has always thought falling in love must be terrifying. Otherwise, why would people call it that? Like one of those nightmarish dreams where you plummet endlessly into an inky black void, never knowing when the end will come, when you’ll feel the final crush of blood and bones and heart. 

But David never realized until this moment that when you do it right, you fall together. So he wraps his arms around Patrick, presses him close to his wildly beating heart, and lets go, holding nothing back. 

And it feels all right, David discovers. It doesn't even feel like falling. It feels like flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when a person who knows nothing about math tries to write math-related foreplay. My apologies to math teachers, trapezoids, rectangles, and the Pythagorean theorem. I'll never look at a hypotenuse the same way again.


	5. Standard Deviation

Their shared prep period has begun to feel like sacred time where they cocoon themselves in their rooms and block out the rest of the world. Sometimes they do use it as actual prep time, to grade tests or assignments, to work on lesson plans or set up for the upcoming class. Other times, they just talk and on even rarer occasions, their lips find each other’s because they aren't able to be in the same room for long without that happening, as if they’re magnets attuned to each other’s oppositely attractive poles. David is glad Patrick has lowered the bar for what is wildly unprofessional behind locked classroom doors.

Today, they’re sitting side-by-side on the couch in the art room, Patrick grading geometry tests and David reading about the Impressionist movement. But David can't remember a single word he's read in the last ten minutes; his mind is overtaken with other thoughts. When Patrick notices David's glazed-over eyes, he nudges David's foot with the toe of his shoe. 

"Are you going to go home with me after baseball practice today?" 

When Patrick gets no response, he touches David’s arm. "Hey, there. What are you thinking about?"

David blinks, trying to give Patrick his full attention. "Just stuff." He shrugs, and tries not to fiddle with his rings like he does whenever he's preoccupied or anxious. But his fingers itch to feel the weight of the metal dragging against his skin. 

Patrick nods gently like he can read David’s mind.

"How you given much thought to what you’re going to do when the school year is over?"

Apparently Patrick _ can _ read David’s mind. 

"I don’t know, Patrick." 

"Have you considered becoming a teacher for real?" Patrick asks, trying—and failing—to mask the eagerness in his voice. 

"That's a real quick no," David says before he can stop himself. 

David can see that Patrick has already begun to concoct a future of them just like this, working together side-by-side during the day and curling up to sleep together every night. David is surprised to find that he wants that future too. But he’s still not sure being a teacher is where he actually belongs, not sure it's the thing he was meant to do. He’d only really be doing it for Patrick, he realizes, and he's pretty sure that's not a good enough reason to stay in a job he only stumbled into by accident because he couldn't say no to Jocelyn's sad, desperate face. 

David exhales. "I never thought I’d actually like teaching, but…" He twists the silver rings on his right hand now, his mind too frenzied to keep his fingers still as well. 

"But you do."

"In a weird way, I do, yes. But they don’t need two art teachers here. Mr. Wells assured me just this morning that Mr. Stewart’s skin grafts are only mildly frightening now and he’ll be back for the start of school in the fall. And I certainly don’t love the hours or the extra assignments or the grading or the politics or even the students most days…"

Patrick laughs, rich and throaty. "So what do you like?"

"I like you."

Patrick smiles indulgently, like he’s just been reminded of one of the fundamental natural laws of the universe, that David Rose likes him. "I’ve noticed."

"I bet you always knew you wanted to be a teacher, huh?" David is surprised they’ve never talked about this before, but he’s even more surprised when Patrick’s blush-stained ears climb up his head in embarrassment. Those ears are going to be the death of him one day. 

"Actually, no, I didn’t," Patrick says. "This is only my third year of teaching. I used to want to own my own business, start my own empire. You know, kind of like your dad." He smiles sheepishly at that. 

"What kind of business?" David asks and he’s never been more intrigued by Patrick and the past he holds so close to his chest. Patrick has only slowly starting to unravel it so David can see the strings of his former life. 

"That was the problem," Patrick admits with a sigh. "I could never figure that part out. My first job out of college was working for the Small Business Association of my local government, helping other people draft their business plans, register for the proper licenses, apply for grants and loans. And I just grew more and more frustrated that I was helping others achieve their dreams while I couldn’t come up with one good idea."

"So you thought becoming a high school math teacher would inspire you?" David tries not to laugh at Patrick, but his face cracks under the pressure.

Patrick rubs the back of his neck, hesitant to confess the next part. "It was Rachel." Patrick looks at David to gauge his reaction to her name, but David masks his face to reveal nothing, so Patrick presses on. "Rachel was...is...a teacher too. They had an opening for a math teacher at her school." Patrick shrugs. "They agreed to hire me provisionally as long as I got the proper certification within a year. So I did. I thought it would be a temporary thing while I figured out my next step."

"What does Rachel teach?" David asks, because he can’t help his curiosity’s blatant disregard for his self-preservation. 

"Um...French."

_ Good with her tongue then_, David thinks ruefully. He forces himself not to say it out loud. 

"So why did you come here then? I mean, teaching high school is soul crushing enough on its own, but I'm pretty sure Schitt’s Creek is the place where dreams come to die."

"I told you. Rachel and I broke up when I came out and I wanted a fresh start in order to explore my...options." Patrick's ears grow even redder. David didn't know that was even possible.

"Yes, I get that. But why another job as a teacher? Why not get back into some sort of business role? Or move to a bigger city where you'd have more....options?"

"I don’t know," Patrick says with a half-hearted shrug. "I was a little overwhelmed at the time what with the redefining of my entire identity. Mr. Wells was the first person to offer me a job, so I took it. I don’t regret coming here at all." 

"No? Why not?" David is clearly fishing, but Patrick still takes the bait. 

"Because, David, otherwise I wouldn't have met you." Patrick nudges David’s foot again. "I've been waiting my entire life to meet someone who makes me feel the way you do." Patrick pauses like he's going to say something else, but he must decide against it, because he merely smiles smoothly and says, "There are some perks to being a teacher, you know."

"Oh? Like what?" David asks. "Is it the stunning respect and generous paychecks?"

"Not even close," Patrick says with a laugh. "But we do get summers off."

"Mm. I do love summer." 

"We could have a lot of fun together," Patrick teases, leaning forward to press a tempting kiss into the corner of David’s mouth.

David can just picture Patrick all aglow in the July sun, blinding and beautiful in his summer skin as they fit themselves together like puzzle pieces every lazy morning for two months. He’d like that very much. But David also can't help thinking that it probably wouldn't take that long for Patrick to grow weary of him. David tries to stamp the vision out before he gets too excited about it. He knows he’s best served in small doses. 

"On second thought, that might be too much time together. And summer seems to lasts forever around here." 

"I am 87% certain I will never get sick of you, David," Patrick responds, like he’s already penciled David Rose into every hour of his summer calendar. And maybe even beyond. 

"That’s seems optimistically high."

"Well, I’m a numbers guy. You can trust me on that," Patrick says with confidence.

"I think," David says, trying to stuff his pleased smile into the corner of his mouth so he can continue the conversation they had originally started before summer invaded his thoughts, "what I liked about this job was more about feeling like I had a purpose, like I was useful. I want...I feel like I need to create something." 

"I get that, David," Patrick says softly. "Believe me I know how that feels. But I am also 99% sure you’ll figure it out."

"Just 99%, eh?" David asks with a small, affectionate shove to Patrick’s arm. 

"Yeah, but the standard deviation is very low."

David shakes his head. "I don’t know what that means."

"It’s a measure of confidence," Patrick explains. "It means there’s very little chance you’re not going to figure it out. You’re brilliant, David Rose. Whatever your brilliant, beautiful mind decides to do, it’s going to be amazing."

"Well, now I’m 100% sure someone is going to get lucky tonight," David grins widely, fingers sliding down the line of Patrick's arm. 

"Oh, I already know that," Patrick says with a wink. 

"Well, someone is feeling extremely sure of themselves today."

Patrick laughs with his whole heart. "Of course. That’s just statistics, babe."

***

When they leave the school late that afternoon, long after baseball practice and long after all the students and teachers have left, Patrick threads his fingers through David’s and together they walk down the dimly lit halls of the high school, hands clasped like young teenagers in love.

David can’t remember holding hands with someone like this before, where holding hands didn’t come with strings or complicated expectations of more. David suspects that Patrick would be happy just to hold his hand like this and nothing more and it fills David with an unmistakable longing for the innocence he never had in any of his past relationships. He’d grown up too fast. He’d grown up too hard.

"I feel like I’m back in high school, holding your hand like this." David finally says or else he’d be lost in his thoughts forever.

"We are in high school," but Patrick laughs delightedly. 

"You know what I mean," David says. "It’s nice though. I like it."

Patrick swallows his smile and looks to David with that earnest face of his, backlit by the glow of the exit sign, gleaming a flushed red across his stubbled cheeks. David's imagines Patrick's cheeks would be red regardless. Patrick tightens his hand around David’s and David can feel his rings dig deep into his flesh, a tangible reminder of what is real and true.

"I like it too," Patrick whispers. "Like I’m finally getting it right this time."

It shouldn't surprise David by now and yet it does, the way Patrick has filled a hole David never realized he had. And how it seems obvious to him now that if he is a trapezoid, all flared sides and acute angles, then Patrick is a parallelogram, a faithful rectangle who has slanted his sides to fit snugly along David's bruised edges just so.

***

That night, David takes Patrick apart bit by tender bit. David did promise Patrick he was going to get lucky, after all. David sculpts the pieces back together, reconstructing Patrick through breathy sighs, searing kisses, and long arching strokes until there's nothing left but the sound of their unrestrained joy. Patrick is pale and luminous against his dark blue sheets, breathtaking and life-giving all at once. And maybe they have already begun to create something beautiful and priceless here; two ordinary men made extraordinary together. 

***

Near the end of the school year, amid the stress of final exams and final projects, and well into his own existential crisis, David is blindsided by Dylan, from his first period drawing class, who comes into David’s classroom thirty minutes before the morning bell. Thankfully, it’s a day that began in Patrick’s bed which is the only reason David is present and coherent so early. Maybe not completely coherent. Patrick did wake David up with his tongue. 

Dylan is gangly and shy, but possessed of a natural artistic talent. David has never gotten a real read on him before; he hardly ever speaks up but his electric blue eyes observe everything. He dresses in dark clothes with flannel shirts and David wonders if Stevie and Dylan shop at the same store. Dylan fidgets in the doorway before David ushers him in and shuts the door behind him. 

"Can I help you with something, Dylan?" David asks gently. Dylan still looks a little skittish, but he obviously has something on his mind. 

"You and Mr. Brewer are together, right?" Dylan finally spits out. 

"How…" David clears his throat. "What makes you say that?" 

"I see the way you look at each other. I mean, we all see. It’s kinda obvious that you two like each other...like that."

"Like what?" David asks without thinking about whether he should actually hear the answer to that question. 

Dylan is clearly embarrassed now. "Like you want to kiss each other all the time."

"Dylan, that’s really not appropriate…are we really that obvious? No, don’t answer that. Mr. Brewer has some very strong opinions about what is and is not correct professional behavior for teachers."

"It’s OK. I mean, it’s cool. If you two are together. Like that."

David is shocked into silence, for once. Dylan looks around the room uncomfortably.

"Was there some sort of question that you wanted to ask me then? Or was that it?" David finally manages to ask.

"Yeah. You’re, like, one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. So how did you figure it out?"

"How did I figure out what?"

David is bracing himself for some grand coming out moment, how to know if you’re bi or gay or queer—and really, this is definitely above his pay grade—but Dylan surprises him by asking him something completely different. Or maybe not that different at all. 

"How do you figure out how to be yourself?"

David sits down at his desk and contemplates the question he’s been asking himself for days and weeks and months and years. 

"Well, I wish I knew the answer to that myself. I’m sorry to tell you that you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to figure that out."

"Don’t you know? You seem so sure of yourself." Dylan says, dragging the toe of his Sharpied Converse across the pot-marked floor.

"No adult knows what the hell they’re doing. We’re all just making it up as we go along," David responds and isn’t that the truth of it? 

Dylan looks at David like he just spilled some confidential government secrets. "Seriously?" 

"Seriously. But the important thing is that you want to find out the answer. Some people don’t want to know who they are. Or just want to be who other people say they are."

David thinks about Patrick and how he came to himself later and how he judges himself for it. But David doesn’t see it that way. He sees how Patrick was willing to be wrong about himself, was willing to change. And David has never given Patrick enough credit for the courage it took to give up something good for the chance of something better. To want more for himself than just good enough. 

"You find the thing that makes you happy and you keep moving in that direction," David says. It's good advice. He thinks he might even try to use it himself some day.

"What if I don’t know what makes me happy or who I want to be?"

"You keep on trying. Death is the only deadline for this particular assignment."

"Wow, Mr. Rose. That’s pretty bleak," Dylan says with a startled laugh. 

"You know that my family used to be rich, right?" It’s a stupid question. Everyone in Schitt’s Creek and all the Elms within 50 kilometers have probably heard of the down-on-their-luck Roses. 

Dylan looks a little wary, but nods his head. 

"Well, I used to have everything I thought I wanted. Shopping trips to Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue. Expensive vacations and massive homes. A job, but no true purpose. It was only when we lost it all that I realized the truth."

"What truth?" Dylan asks, running a hand through his badly dyed black hair. 

"That I hadn’t actually been happy."

"But you’re happy now?" Dylan asks as if any sane adult could be happy as a high school teacher. 

David hasn’t stopped to consider that question in a long time. For so long, he’d operated under the certainty that money was the only path back to happiness, but he can see now that he was wrong. 

"I am…happy." David pauses, letting the truth of that realization wash over him. "I also realized something else. Something very important."

"What’s that?" Dylan asks.

"It’s about the people you surround yourself with. It’s about your relationships. If you don’t have that, you’ll always be poor." 

Dylan nods his head slowly, considering. David knows these words won’t mean much to him now, too young to grasp much beyond himself. But he hopes that maybe he’s become the kind of teacher Patrick told him he should be, who challenges his student to be more than he is, to reach beyond himself to something greater. And wouldn’t that be something?

Dylan finally speaks. "I’m glad you found each other. Mr. Brewer seems really happy now too. He wasn’t...before."

"I know, Dylan." David answers, face softening. "And thanks." 

Dylan takes his seat as the bell rings and the classroom churns with more students, all knobby-kneed and acne-scarred as David explains the day’s agenda to a sea of groaning faces. But there’s a thing like affection that burns in David’s chest throughout the rest of the day for these rambunctious puppies still growing into their paws. 

***

David tells Patrick about his conversation with Dylan that night as they lay together like corresponding shapes aligned with each other’s bodies. 

"Was that...okay? What I said to Dylan?" David whispers, slightly terrified he got it all wrong.

"It was perfect," Patrick says with conviction, cupping David’s face in his large, capable hands. "You were perfect, Mr. Rose."

***

At the end of the year, David stages an exhibition of his students’ best work. He somehow convinces town council to give him access to the newly vacant General Store for a week and he covers its walls with yards and yards of white butcher paper and then drags in some tables to display more art in the center of the room. David could never see the space beyond the ugly metal shelves or past the tragedy of the fungal cream residing next to the cereal boxes, but he sees now how the floors are a stunning mixture of multi-colored wood and how the tall storefront windows let in cascading rays of natural light throughout the day and gleam off the white subway tiles on the walls. At night, though, the store's artificial lighting is atrocious and all wrong for exhibit design, but Mr. Wells refuses him a budget for recessed lighting because he is without vision. Patrick eventually saves the day by watching YouTube tutorials and installs some decent lights to shine on the art. David helps his students craft their text labels, honing down their inspirations and interpretations to 100 words or less and prints them off on cardstock that he finds on the forgotten bottom shelf of the art room’s supply closet. 

On opening night, David stands in a corner with Patrick, twisting his hands and mouth in equal measure, while he apprehensively waits for someone—anyone—to walk through the doors. At first, just the students and their beleaguered parents come to see evidence of their artistic attempts, but then—in the way that always seems to happen here—the whole town shows up, steadily, effusively, indulgently until the whole space is full of people. Moira waltzes in on Johnny’s arm fashionably late and her face is overcome with genuine wonder.

"Who knew this town was full of so many talented amateur artists? Why, David, it appears that you may have been an adequate instructor to this town’s juvenile residents after all."

"Please try not to sound so shocked when you say that." But David feels a zip of pride that only his mother can instill in him. She hands out genuine praise so infrequently. 

"Maybe you could bring the family portrait to your classroom, David," Johnny pipes in, hands clapping together with his bright solution to a sticky problem. "Your students can observe a great piece of art up close. It could be very educational."

"That’s not gonna happen," David answers quickly. Patrick quirks one eyebrow up at David, and David shakes his head quietly as if to say _ I’ll explain later. _

"Well, it needs to go somewhere," Johnny persists. 

"Try the dumpster then," David counters. "There’s no way I’m dragging that thing through the halls of Schitt’s Creek High School. That’s like the start of a bad horror movie."

Alexis blows into the exhibition later that evening like a hurricane—or a tropical storm at the very least—squawking about passing her classes and sharing "an adult kiss" with Ted at the vet’s office. The Roses are apparently wildly professional people all around, David surmises. 

"What the hell does that even mean?" David asks when Alexis won’t shut up about the adult kiss in front of him and Patrick. Patrick is practically inflating like a bright red balloon from his effort not to burst out laughing at poor Alexis. 

"Like, a non-sexual kiss between two adults, David." Alexis explains with a flip of her beautifully braided hair. 

"Yeah. I don’t think that’s a thing that happens, Alexis."

"Of course it is, David," Alexis insists. "We can also adult hug and adult high-five each other. We decided...like adults."

"Again, I don’t think that’s a thing, Alexis."

"Ugh, David. Whatever. I need to go. I still need to find out if Mrs. Syzlak has a cat or not." David merely furrows his brow in confusion. His family is ridiculous. (But maybe he still loves them.) 

Alexis moves to leave, but then turns back around to David and this time, her eyes are soft. "It looks really good in here, David. You’re a terrible brother, but it turns out you’re not a bad teacher. Kelsey even said so." 

"Thanks, Alexis." David eats his lips but the faint blush high on his cheekbones gives him away. "And congrats on passing. You worked hard."

Alexis nods with a knowing double blink and slips out of the store. When David turns back to Patrick, he has his hand up, palm facing David. 

"Adult high-five?" 

"I’ll tell you where you can put that adult high-five tonight," David says with the barest hint of a dare. They are still ostensibly in a public place and there are rules. Sometimes, there are rules. And they are still trying to be professionals around the students and other teachers. Though David is pretty sure everyone is well aware of their relationship by now. 

"It sounds like we’ll be doing some adult kissing tonight," Patrick’s eyes sparkle and David can’t remember a world in which he didn’t have this, a life of laughter and Patrick.

David’s face can barely contain his smile. "Can’t wait."

***

The gifts begin to magically appear the last week of school: scented body milk in a glass bottle, bath salts in a leftover butter container, handmade verbena and lavender hand soap wrapped in wax paper, a gauzy, warm scarf made of cat hair, of all things. The kids must have picked up on David’s love of food because soft cheeses enveloped in cloth, canned mason jars of applesauce, and homemade lemon curd find their way to his desk as well. They come with notes explaining that a parent or relative makes them and they thought Mr. Rose might like them. The cards say impossible things like "you’re my favorite teacher" or "I learned so much from you this year." David tries to read them without crying, but his resolve crumbles when he reads a note that simply says "don’t leave" with no signature. 

Patrick finds him like that, completely thunderstruck and surrounded by a desk full of containers and notecards. Patrick picks up one or two of the notes and reads them with a soft smile before pulling David into a hug, rubbing soothing isosceles triangles and dodecahedrons into his back.

"I almost think I should be jealous," Patrick says with a laugh, "I only got like three gift cards and a handful of notes."

David pulls back to survey Patrick’s face with its quirked mouth and proud eyes. He waves over the gifts. "This isn’t normal?"

Patrick shakes his head. "If you were an elementary school teacher, sure, but definitely not normal for a high school teacher. You certainly made your mark here, Mr. Rose."

"But I don’t understand," David says wetly. "Why would they give me all these beautiful things?"

"Because David," Patrick says patiently, "you taught them to see themselves as artists. That’s a big deal."

"But you teach math!" David protests, feeling raw and exposed. "That’s, like, a legitimate and necessary skill in the world. Or so some people tell me."

Patrick laughs, that muffled one that means that Patrick thinks he’s not supposed to find David as funny as he does. It both delights and infuriates David. "I agree that math is a very important subject. I happen to love it. Sometimes I get lucky and a few students feel the same way. But to discover you’re an artist, to find the thing that you love? Now, that changes a person." Patrick pauses as he tilts the jar of lemon curd to read its label before speaking again. "You changed a lot of people’s lives this year, David. Mine included. Mine most especially."

Patrick smiles softly before wrapping David into his arms. He leans in slowly and kisses David thoroughly, like his need for David is endless. And that's a big deal too.

***

Graduation falls on David's birthday. As teachers, they're expected to attend, but Patrick promises David a moderately edible dinner and chocolate cake afterwards so he doesn't mind watching from the back of the room. He feels something alarmingly close to pride as Alexis accepts her diploma and he feels a lump crawling through his throat when Moira and the Jazzagals make a surprise appearance. He doesn't mind how Patrick slides his hand into David's afterwards or how he tucks a secret kiss into David's neck when no one's looking or the shimmer in his eyes when he hands David a gift bag full of blue tissue paper.

"What’s this?" David asks, eyeing the package dubiously.

"It’s a gift." Patrick says with a bashful smile.

"Oh. This is just the first gift I’ve received in a very long time."

Patrick gives him a small frown. "Well, I wish it were something better then." 

David wades through the tissue and pulls out a simple black box. Nestled inside is a neatly framed ticket stub from the Elmdale Arthouse. 

"It’s just the ticket stub from our first date," Patrick explains unnecessarily. 

David glances up to Patrick with a surprised smile. "I don’t recall that being a date."

"Yeah. That’s because I was too chicken to tell you that’s what I wanted it to be."

"I wanted it to be that too." David rubs his fingers down the frame. It’s a surprisingly solid frame. "I can't believe you kept this."

Patrick shoves his hands deep into his pockets and shrugs up to his ears. "David, I’ve never been lucky in love. My defenses are down."

"Please stop."

Patrick’s face is so earnest. David can’t stand it. "I’m looking for love. Calling heaven above." 

"I don't like you right now." He really, really likes him all the time, but especially right now. 

Patrick blinks innocently. "Send me an angel." 

"Patrick, that is not going to be our song."

"Of course not, David. Wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t even own a dirt bike." 

David looks at the frame, the ticket stub, the man before him with his teasing smile, a scar on his left eyebrow, twin freckles on his right ear, and he knows.

"Patrick?"

"Yes, David?"

"This is something better." And when they kiss, David’s burning heart is on fire. 

*** 

David's birthday celebration lasts well into the night, so it's late afternoon by the time David and Patrick make it back to the high school to finish packing up the rest of their personal belongings from their classrooms. David still can't quite believe he survived the whole five months of teaching. He never would have made it without Patrick. They're in the art classroom now and David is trying to convince himself that he won't miss it, not one little bit. He's failing spectacularly. 

"Look what Mr. Stewart sent me as a thank you for teaching his classes." David pulls out a stained glass window edged in green trim from the pile of gifts still on his desk and holds it up for Patrick to see. Patrick makes a choking sound as soon as he sees the vaguely suggestive shape. 

"David, that looks like a…" Patrick makes a likewise suggestive shape with his hands.

"I know."

"Where are you going to hang that?" Patrick asks. It probably would look pretty silly hanging in his motel room. 

"I don’t know," David looks at it intently. "I kinda love it though." He sets it down gingerly with the items to take home with him, careful to protect its sharp edges and fragile glass from cracking. 

David yanks open one of the desk drawers and starts to pile all the loose leaf bits of paper, half filled notebooks, and broken bits of charcoal and colored pencils into an empty cardboard box so he can go through it later. Patrick thumbs through some of it and pulls out a paper, slightly tattered and crinkled at the edges but David recognizes it immediately. A mouth and a hand and a wish sketched into reality. 

"David," Patrick says, voice hushed and awestruck. "You drew this?" He turns the paper over so David can see it, but he knows what it is without glancing at it. 

"Um...yes," David answers, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. The remaining contents of the third drawer on the left side are suddenly very riveting. 

"This is me," Patrick states and his voice is rough with emotion. 

"Yes," David answers though he wants to roll his eyes and scream, _ obviously. _

Patrick looks down at the smudged drawing again. "When did you draw this?"

David looks up now with a slight wince. "When you took a nap on my couch. After the Jake thing." 

"That was before we were...before prom."

"That’s correct, yes," David agrees. 

"Before our first date?"

"Again, is it really a date when one of the participants has not been informed of that fact?"

"How long...how long did you see me like this before we got together?" Patrick asks quietly, maybe piecing together for the first time how long David wanted him, how long they both wanted each other. 

"From the very first time we met," David admits. 

A soft smile tugs tenderly at the parentheses of Patrick’s mouth. "Can I keep this?" Patrick asks and when David nods, he tucks it into his small box of personal items he’s already collected from his own classroom. David notices Patrick’s hands are now slightly black from the charcoal and he reaches for one of the bottles on his desk. 

"Here. Try some of this body milk," David unscrews the lid and rubs the concoction into Patrick’s marked hands. "Amber said her grandma makes it from her own goat’s milk. Can you believe that?"

It is incredible stuff. The scent is not overpowering or cloying; it’s a subtle, perfect aromatic blend. The lotion itself isn’t greasy at all; it spreads into every worn groove of Patrick’s hands and smooths them, Patrick’s eyes blazing as he watches David methodically rub it into his hands and forearms.

"It feels nice," Patrick says when David’s done. "I would have thought you’d drink something called body milk. But apparently it’s lotion?"

David laughs with a shake of his head. He sets the bottle down and starts to finger each item, marveling at the talent and skill each item took to produce. He was wrong, perhaps, that this town isn’t full of artists. He just didn’t realize that many of them don’t use canvas and paint. Some of them use milk.

"Hey," David says to Patrick, "you know all about starting a business, right?"

"I sure do," Patrick replies with a smile. "Why?"

"I have an idea," David says slowly. He looks at Patrick’s quietly beautiful face, and it’s almost like he can feel the beat of Patrick’s wide open heart in his own. "Will you help me?"

Patrick leans in, kisses the side of David’s shy-smushed face with velvet soft lips. "The things I’d do for you, David Rose. Yes, of course I’ll help. What’s the idea?"

"Well," starts David cautiously, but there’s something warm and certain growing in a tiny, tender spot deep in his gut. "It’s a general store, but it’s also a very specific store."

David isn’t even done explaining his idea before Patrick face melts into a smile, flashing bright, almost blinding him. David should have expected it by now, the way Patrick has already taken David’s dream and made it his own, made it theirs, but it leaves him breathless all the same. David thinks for the first time that maybe Schitt’s Creek isn’t the place where dreams come to die, after all, but where they come to take flight. 

And David never saw that coming at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/29/19: So when you write exactly 25,000 words, you kinda box yourself in to not being able to edit or add to your fic. But vivianblakesunrisebay and nilolay got it into my head that there needed to be more Jocelyn content so I wrote this little drabble, but I didn't want to delete 100 words to add these 100 words so my 25k stayed the same. So please just insert it during the art exhibit scene in between the bits with Moira/Johnny and Alexis. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Jocelyn arrives with wide eyes and even wider hair and gives David a hug which is both unexpected and surprisingly nice. 
> 
> “You definitely have an artistic eye, David.” Jocelyn says as she points to a precarious structure constructed of tin cans and bottle caps in the center of the room. “Like this interesting...sculpture?”
> 
> “It’s found art. Made from everyday items people normally overlook.”
> 
> “Looks like trash to me, but okay.” She smiles at David with her Jocelyn-brand of joy and pats him warmly on his arm. “You did good, David. You did real good.” David knows she means more than just the art exhibit. And that feels unexpected and surprisingly nice too.


End file.
